


You and I

by AteYellowPaint



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Denial of Feelings, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:20:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 76,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26682835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AteYellowPaint/pseuds/AteYellowPaint
Summary: “Then why did you blow her off?” Roger sputters out, “She was bloody gorgeous!”John shrugs and says, “Not my type,” as if it’s obvious.Roger barks out a laugh and sweeps his fringe out of his eyes. “Alright then, what is your type?”John rolls his head to lock eyes with Roger. He takes a drag from his cigarette and looks like he’s thinking something over in his head, as best he can in his drunken state.“Blondes.”-When John joins a college rock band for a bit of fun, he struggles to hide his true feelings for the fiery and charismatic drummer. And when his band finally finds the perfect bassist in the shy - if perhaps a bit snarky - John Deacon, Roger is confronted with a truth he doesn't want to face.And as their fame rises higher than they ever dared to dream, the two must come together as they learn to balance their relationship and their image in world that doesn't accept them for who they are.
Relationships: John Deacon/Roger Taylor
Comments: 271
Kudos: 135





	1. The Queer Kid Joins a Rock Band

John stands in front of the cheap mirror that’s hung over the back of his door. He’s been tucking and untucking his white button down for the past ten minutes.

After tucking it in yet again, he steps back and observes the outfit. He looks like a goddamn Catholic school boy. Frustrated, he takes off the shirt and throws it on the growing pile of clothes on his single bed. He opens his dresser drawer for what feels like the millionth time and roots around, producing a basic white tee shirt. He throws it on and looks in the mirror. Much better.

He’s lucky to have gotten a single room this year. He doesn’t even want to imagine what a roommate would think of him fretting over his outfit like a teenage girl.

John glances at the clock on his small bedside table. _Shit._ He’s gonna be late. He’s never late. He quickly throws on his platform boots and stuffs his bass back in it’s case. He smooths his hair once more in the mirror before he dashes out the door.

***

By the time John makes it to the Music Building, he is completely out of breath. His watch tells him that he is five minutes early. Thank God. He slumps against the wall and tries to slow his breathing, which is quick and jagged due to his sprinting match and nerves.

When his breath is as even as it will get, John walks down the hall and looks for Room 124. _It’s okay if you don’t get it,_ he reminds himself. _It’s just for a bit of fun._

Still, he silently curses himself for putting himself in this situation. When he saw the flyer in the Student Union announcing bassist auditions for some college band, John called the number on impulse, not really expecting much to come of it. Within 24 hours, he had the tabs for a bass line they wanted him to learn and an audition time set up. With each passing day, the audition became more and more real, culminating in John taking tentative steps towards the band room with his legs feeling like jelly.

The sound of light chatter alerts John that he must be close. He sees the open door and pauses one more time to collect himself before walking in.

John stands awkwardly in the doorway for a moment and observes the room. From his vantage point, he can see two people standing by the upright piano discussing something. The shorter, black-haired fellow is dressed to leave an impression and talks while scribbling something out onto a piece of paper. The taller, curly-haired man who gave John the sheet music a week before looks at what the other is writing and nods along.

“Hello, is this the bassist auditions?” John asks quietly, afraid to interrupt whatever the two are talking about.

“John! Hi, yes, come on in.” The taller fellow jumps up and waves John inside. “You can put your stuff down over here.” 

“Right, thank you,” says John. For the life of him, John can’t remember his name, so he decides to just wait until he hears someone else say it rather than make things awkward and ask.

He sets his case down across a spare row of chairs and can feel all eyes on him. “Sorry, um, I’m not sure how these are supposed to go. I didn’t have to audition for my last band.”

“That good, eh?” teases the shorter man. He extends his hand and steps closer to John. “I’m Freddie. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“John. It’s good to meet you as well,” says John, shaking Freddie’s hand.

“Darling, don’t look so terrified!” exclaims Freddie with a tinkle in his eye. “I promise you we’ll be on our best behavior today.”

“Hey, I didn’t promise anything,” John hears from the drum risers. He looks over to see someone pop up from behind the kit and take his seat at the stool.

John’s heart skips a beat. He’s absolutely gorgeous.

He shakes himself out of it and recovers quickly. John walks to the risers and extends his hand over the kit.

“Hi, sorry I didn’t see you there at first. I’m John.”

“I know,” says the drummer with a smirk. He takes John’s hand and gives it a firm shake. “I’m Roger.”

A cheeky one, too.

John simply nods and heads back to his bass. “I just need a minute to set up and then I’ll be ready.”

“Of course, darling, take all the time you need,” says Freddie.

As John plugs his bass into the amp, he answers all of the polite questions Freddie throws his way; the other two band members seem content to hang back and observe. John wonders if this is all part of the audition. He does seem to score some points when he tunes his bass without a tuning device.

“Okay, I think I’m all set up,” says John once everything is to his liking.

“Perfect, you’ll be playing with me,” says Roger. “Got to see if you can keep up.” He adds a wink to the last sentence, silently chuckling when the bassist drops his head to hide the blush creeping in his cheeks. Roger can already tell he would be a fun one.

“Right, then,” says the tall man with a clap. “Let’s hear it.”

Roger counts them in and the two begin. Throughout the song, he looks back to Roger, watching for any tempo changes. A few times, Roger even lets John take the lead and set the pace, likely to see where his instincts are. By the end of the song, they are able to give and take seamlessly.

“Darling, are you trying to seduce me with those fingers?” asks Freddie once the room goes quiet again.

John’s eyes go wide. “What?”

They can’t have figured John out from those few minutes of interaction. That’s impossible, right? John starts to micro-analyze all of his behaviors, wonder if they’ll kick him out of the room, laugh at him, tell stories to all their friends about the queer kid who thought he could be in a rock band.

His panic only lasts an instant because Roger brings a drumstick down on one of his cymbals and points it at Freddie.

“Oi! I thought you said you’d behave,” he jokes.

Freddie starts to laugh and John realizes that they’re taking the piss.

“That's just how I play,” he says shyly with a shaky laugh, hoping his internal panic isn’t noticeable to the others.

“I’ll mark that down,” says Freddie with a wink.

John looks to the drummer who catches his eye and rolls his eyes with a smirk as if to say “ignore him, he does this all the time.” Somehow, the gesture is enough to bring John back down to earth.

After enduring another round of praises from the singer, they start the song again, this time adding in Freddie and the tall guy.

As they play, Roger falls into sync with John again. It’s impressive how quickly he was able to pick it all up. He notices John grow a little looser this time around and he can’t help but chuckle when the kid starts bouncing a bit on his toes. Roger throws in a few more tempo changes for good measure - one that even trips up Brian who turns back and scowls, but John catches it every time.

John is buzzing by the time he plays his last note. He can’t remember the last time it felt so good. After his high school band broke up, he’d only ever practiced by himself. But with the drums and electric guitar and Freddie’s strange, but unique voice, he instantly remembers the joys of playing live.

“That was utterly divine,” says Freddie with a flourish. “Don’t you think, Brian?”

Brian! That was the guy’s name.

“Yes, it was quite good,” says Brian in his mild voice. “John, we have a few more auditions today, but we’ll get in touch with you either way. Is there a number where we can reach you?”

“Oh! Yes, of course.” John pats his pockets but realizes he didn’t bring a pen with him. “Um, do you…”

Brian picks up what John is looking for and passes John a pen and a scrap piece of sheet music. “‘Course.”

“Thanks.” John uses a music stand to scribble down the number to his hall’s shared telephone and passes it back to Brian, but Freddie intercepts and picks the paper from John’s hand before Brian can get to it.

“I’ll take that, thank you,” says Freddie with a smirk.

John nervously smiles back and pushes down the anxious thoughts that are trying to creep back into his mind, at least until he is out of the room.

“Alright, well, thank you,” says John as he double checks that his case is locked. “It was great fun playing with you all; have a good afternoon.”

John is halfway out the door when he hears a cheerful, “Bye, John!”

He turns around to see Roger twirling a drumstick and grinning from ear to ear, clearly amused at the new kid’s nervous energy.

“Bye, Roger,” he mumbles before he scurries out the door, desperate to leave before he makes a fool out of himself.

***

“Do we even need to deliberate?” asks Roger as he flops down on the couch in his and Freddie’s shared flat.

Brian settles into the armchair across from him with a bottle of beer. “What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s obvious we’re picking that John fellow,” Roger says as he digs in his side table drawer for his grinder and wrapping papers.

Freddie sits down next to Roger and tosses a baggie of weed on the coffee table and Roger gets to work grinding the buds.

“I did quite like the dear.”

“We should at least discuss the other bassists,” says Brian.

“Oh, come off it, Bri!” exclaims Roger. “You know as well as I do that he was the best of the litter. Half the others didn’t even learn the bloody song!”

“Doesn’t exactly inspire much confidence in John with the bar that low,” says Brian in a slightly condescending tone.

Roger almost rips the paper as he rolls his blunt; sometimes it’s like Brian is trying to make him angry. “You’re such a prick sometimes, you know that? Why can’t you just trust me when I say he’s the one? I am rhythm after all, I think I know better than you who will sound best for the band.”

“I’m just trying to have a fair deliberation, why are you getting so defensive?”

“Fair, my arse!”

“Alright, boys, calm down” says Freddie, holding a hand between the two of them

Brian rolls his eyes and takes a swallow of his beer, but says nothing. Roger gives him one more glare before he grabs his lighter and lights the blunt, breathing in to allow the paper to catch. Roger knows that the only reason Brian is putting up a fight is because he wants to be the one who made the decision, not anyone else. It’s damn frustrating to be the youngest - even though he was a founding member, Brian refuses to let Roger take any form of leadership, even when he knows best.

“Now, Brian,” says Freddie after a moment. “I have to agree with Roger on this one. There’s no question; John was better than the best. You saw him up there, I know you think so, too.”

Brian puts his hand in his chin and contemplates for a minute. Roger has to stop himself from rolling his eyes at the patronizing display and takes another hit of his blunt, allowing the effects to take their hold.

“Are you sure about it, Roger?” Brian’s eyes are trained on Roger.

Roger holds his gaze and says, “Obviously.”

“Alright, then,” says Brian as he claps his hands on his knees and gets up to find another drink in the kitchenette behind them. “Let’s call him and extend the offer.”

Roger starts to get up, but Freddie is already on his feet. “I’ll call him, dear.”

Freddie glides to the wall phone and digs the paper with John’s number out of his pocket. He glances between the paper and the phone as he inputs the number and taps his foot, giddy with excitement when it starts to ring.

***

John sits at his desk, his homework abandoned in favor of staring out of his window. He’d been a nervous wreck all evening and spent the last several hours picking apart his entire audition - what he did right, what he did wrong, what he did to look like a nervous idiot. He thought schoolwork might distract him - the logic and reason of his engineering problems typically did wonders to focus his mind, but it did nothing for him this evening.

His eyes wander over the trees illuminated by the warm street lamps below, the half moon hanging in the sky, the shingled rooftop of the building across the street.

He almost has his heart rate back to normal when a loud knock scares him out of his seat.

“Telephone for you!” a female voice shouts through his door.

John bolts across his room and throws open the door, almost crashing into the startled blonde girl still standing in his doorway.

“Thank you, I’ve got it,” John says, only as a formality, as he squeezes past her into the hall.

The receiver lies on top of the phone hutch and John hesitates for a moment. He takes a deep breath in one final, unsuccessful attempt to calm his nerves and brings the phone to his ear.

“Hello?” he asks in a timid voice.

“Darling, it’s so good to hear from you!”

John starts when Freddie’s voice comes blaring through the receiver. He giggles and says, “Freddie, you called me.”

“That’s right, John, and I come bearing good news.”

John releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Is that so?”

“It is.” John can practically hear Freddie beaming through the phone, and he wonders if Freddie can hear the same.

“Well, what is it?” John asks expectantly. “Or do I need to wait for the morning paper to find out?”

“Don’t tempt me, darling,” Freddie warns playfully, “I love a good tease.”

John leans back against the wall and lets out a laugh that comes from a strange place of anticipation and relief. He can already guess the good news, but he needs to hear it out loud.

“Okay, okay, no more teasing. I can’t bear it anymore,” John says as his laughter subsides.

“Oh, alright, but only because I took pity on you,” says Freddie.

“How would you, Mr. John--” Freddie pauses for a moment. “Oh dear, I just realized I never got your last name.”

“Deacon; it’s Deacon,” John rushes to say, already catching on to the way Freddie likes to play little games.

“Deacon, how utterly exotic,” Freddie says. “Well, anyway, where was I? Ah, yes. How would you, Mr. John Deacon, like to join Queen as our bassist extraordinaire?”

“Hm, I don’t know,” John says after a beat, chuckling at the genuine gasp of shock his response elicits.

“What?” Freddie sounds genuinely concerned.

“I’m only joking!” John laughs. “Of course, of course I’d love to join Queen.”

“Oh, you’re a tricky one! I’ll have to keep my eye on you,” Freddie playfully admonishes. “Our next practice is Thursday at four. Can you make it?”

“Yes, that’s perfect.”

“Wonderful! We shall see you then, my dear.”

“Looking forward to it,” John says before hanging up.

John slides down the wall and rests his elbows on his knees. He stares at the scuffed and torn wallpaper ahead of him as a laugh bubbles up. He covers his mouth to stop the rest from coming out - he should probably avoid looking like a crazy person laughing by himself in the middle of the residence hall at ten on a Tuesday.

He’d only signed up for the audition half out of boredom and (if he was willing to admit it to himself) half out of loneliness. Being in London this past year wasn’t easy. He had lost touch with all of his friends from high school, the friends he made at university were more acquaintances than anything else, and it's not like the men he meets at the disco are the type he'd bring home to mother.

In the back of his mind, he had thought that joining a band would give him built-in friends, or at least some sort of social schedule to adhere to.

He knows that’s really why he was so nervous. But now he’s in. He actually managed to do it.

He buries his face in his hands and lets out one more soft giggle before he gets up to go back to his dorm, dazed with happiness.

***

“Well, that’s that!” Freddie says as he sits back down and curls up next to Roger. He plucks the blunt from Roger’s hand and takes a drag for himself.

“We’ve got ourselves a bassist,” Freddie announces after he exhales.

“I figured as much,” says Roger, “I’m surprised you didn’t scare him away with your incessant flirting.”

“He has to know what he’s getting into.”

“You?”

“Honestly, Roger!” Freddie smacks Roger’s leg in mock-admonishment. “Never. He’s a baby!”

Roger feels a rush of relief he can't quite place.

“Yeah, alright.” Roger chuckles before he takes another hit from his rapidly diminishing blunt. Through the haze, he feels a buzz of excitement. After going through so many bassists, he thinks they might have finally found the one who sticks.


	2. Astounding Science Fiction

John focuses on coiling the wires that were plugged into his amp. The sound of light shuffles and the occasional reverberation of the drums fill the room as everyone works on their own sections.

After three hours of sight-reading the band’s music, he wants nothing more than to get back to his room and crash. He’s so zoned out that he doesn’t even notice when someone sits next to him and jumps at the sound of Freddie’s voice.

“You sounded wonderful.”

“You don’t have to flatter me,” John says once he recovers from his fright. “I sounded like shit.”

“John, it was your very first time even looking at the music,” says Freddie.

“So you agree?” John turns slightly to Freddie with wide eyes. “I sounded like shit?”

Freddie barks out a laugh and slaps at John’s arm, drawing a soft laugh out of John as he weakly defends himself from the assault.

“Oh, you devil!” Freddie laughs. “Stop laying these traps for me!”

John chuckles again and finishes wrapping his last cable. He doesn’t say anything more, content to leave the conversation where it lay, but Freddie doesn’t seem the type to enjoy silences, because he’s soon filling it again.

“John, dear?” Freddie asks.

“Hm?” John hums as he gathers the bundle of cables to put them away.

“The three of us are going back to me and Roger’s place for dinner. Would you like to join?”

“Oh.” John shifts on his feet. “Don’t worry about me. I’m knackered.”

“Yes, but you must be  _ starving _ . It’ll be fun,” Freddie coaxes.

“I-- I don’t want to be an intrusion,” John finally admits, lowering his voice so the other two don’t hear.

“ _ Intrusion? _ ” Freddie exclaims like it’s the most preposterous thing he’s ever heard. “Darling, there’s no such thing!”

“Come now.” Freddie is already taking the pile of cords out of John’s arms. “Let’s get this packed up. You’re coming with us.”

“Right,” John says softly, folding his arms across his chest, missing the security of having something in his hands. 

He casts a glance at the other two. If Brian heard any of that, he’s pretending he didn’t. Roger, though, isn’t so discrete. Even with his back is to him, John can see his shoulders shake with a silent laugh.

“No use in protesting, mate,” Roger throws over his shoulder. “Fred always gets his way.”

“I figured as much.”

Roger laughs at the retort. The bloke’s got a quick wit, that’s for sure, even if he doesn’t seem to open his mouth much. Still, he can feel the nervous energy radiating off of John and he figures the spotlight being shone on him by Freddie isn’t helping the matter.

“Hey, John?” Roger calls, “Could you help me finish breaking this down?”

“Oh! Of course, sorry,” John says as he scurries over.

“No apologies,” assures Roger, “It’s just that the other two are useless with this sort of stuff. I figured you’d know what you're doing.”

He looks up to see John bite back a smile as he makes quick work of breaking down the high hat. He seems to visibly relax now that he has something to do with his hands.

“And you two can feel free to make yourselves useful and pack up the van,” Roger says to Freddie and Brian. He digs his keys out of his pocket and gives a quick heads up to Brian before tossing them his way.

After a few grumbles and a knowing look from Roger, the pair grab their things and head out the door.

As they work, it doesn’t escape him how easily John is able to sit in silence, which is something he’d never been quite good at. Roger figures they wouldn’t have said another word to each other if he hadn’t spoken up.

“We’re making pasta tonight,” Roger says as he puts away the last snare drum in the closet. “Well-- we’re reheating pasta tonight. I hope that’s okay.”

“That’s alright, yeah,” says John, “I’m not picky.”

Roger smiles to himself at John’s soft disposition. He allows the quiet to settle again as he does one last sweep of the rehearsal room and ushers them out the door.

***

When they get to the flat, Freddie gives John a quick tour of the place. And by quick, it takes less than a minute to show off their eclectic quarters.

The front door opens to the common room. To their right, there is a beat-up old couch with an ornate tapestry tacked to the wall above it. The couch is flanked with small side tables and doors on either side that lead to Freddie and Roger’s rooms (both of which were skipped on the tour due to the “atrocities” they might find inside, according to Freddie). Two mismatched armchairs face the couch with a coffee table in the middle. On the back wall is a tall window leading to a fire escape and a bookcase practically overflowing with books. A record player precariously balances on top of the mini library and a milk crate stuffed with records sits beside it.

To their left, a half-wall separates the kitchen and living room. The kitchen is a small galley with awful laminate floors and chipped cabinets. A small dining table with two rickety chairs is shoved up against the only free wallspace. At the other end of the kitchen is the cramped bathroom which houses a pedestal sink, toilet, and clawfoot shower.

Practically every surface in the flat is littered with various tchotkes, yet it doesn’t feel cluttered or cramped. Instead, each and every figurine, ornament, and bauble feels as if it was lovingly picked out and placed like it was always meant to be there.

In short, it feels like a home.

After some polite conversation, Freddie and Brian retreat to the kitchen to “cook” dinner. John is too restless to sit and too nervous to speak, so he opts to stand in front of the bookcase and check out a few of the titles that pack the shelves.

“You want a drink or anything, mate?” Roger asks from the couch where he’s packing a pipe.

“Oh, no thank you,” John replies.

“Are you sure? It’s no problem,” Roger tries to assure him.

“Yeah. I only drink to get drunk,” John says matter-of-factly. “And I have class in the morning, so it’s probably not best tonight.”

Roger hums in response and lights his pipe. Brian and Freddie are engrossed in their own conversation in the kitchen, clanging pots and slamming things around.

John scans his eyes over the bookshelf. It is full of fantasy and sci-fi novels. He spots some Vonnegut and Tolkien and flicks his finger over the row of comics and magazines on the middle shelf.

“So, whose books are these?” John asks, taking out a hefty hardback and flipping through it.

“They’re mine,” says Roger, “Freddie’s not really one for reading.”

“I never would have pegged you for a nerd.” John chuckles as he pretends to read a passage from the space fiction novel in his hands. 

“Hey! That stuff’s not nerdy,” Roger playfully defends himself. “It’s cool.” 

“I’m not one to judge, I love this stuff,” John says, “I’m partial to  _ Slaughterhouse Five _ .”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.” John flicks up his eyes from the book and shoots Roger a smile. He’s delighted when Roger bounces up from the couch to join John at the bookcase; he’s like an excitable puppy.

“Well, if you’re a fan of that, then let me show you this,” Roger says.

John closes the book he’s holding and watches as Roger flicks through the row of magazines. His tongue pokes slightly between his lips and his eyes squint in concentration as he pulls at magazines and comics to peek at their covers before putting them back. John only breaks from his trance once Roger finds what he’s looking for and startles him with a loud, “Aha!”

“Here,” Roger says as he hands John a worn and creased magazine. On the cover looms a large silver robot against a green background. Blood drips from its metallic fingers, like it had accidentally impaled the dead man cradled in its hand. Its orange eyes are turned to the heavens, and it almost looks like it is begging its creator for help.

“This was my favorite magazine growing up,” Roger says, “Me and my mates used to pass them around. This is the only issue that made it down to London with me, though.”

John smiles up at Roger before he gingerly opens the magazine; the obvious sentiment attached to the object makes it feel ten times more fragile than it actually is.

“It’s got some great stories in there,” Roger continues. In the back of his mind, he thinks he may be babbling too much, but he can’t bring himself to care. He’s just excited to have finally found someone who shares his reading tastes. “You can always come over and read it one day. Mon library est tu library.”

John chuckles at the butchered French and then says sincerely, “Thanks, I would love to do that.”

Roger awards him with a smile that could melt a heart of stone, and for a second, John forgets how to breathe.

“Alright, lovelies!” Freddie announces, making John jump. “I hope you’re hungry!”

The four sit on the floor around the coffee table and eat a feast of reheated and slightly over salted pasta with red sauce. As the dinner wears on, Roger notices that John loosens up a little, though he’s still quite withdrawn, more content to listen to the other three ramble on than anything else.

A small part of Roger worries about John’s shy demeanor. He seemed perfectly confident when he was playing his bass, but there’s a big difference between playing in a rehearsal room and playing in front of an audience.

Once everyone’s plate is clean, Freddie begins to clear away the dishes. John jumps up to help, but Freddie grabs the plate from his hands.

“John, sit back down,” Freddie says, “You are my guest tonight.”

Freddie turns to Brian and tries to pass him the plate, “Here, Bri, can you help me bring these to the kitchen?”

“What, am I not your guest, too?” Brian puts his hand to his chest like he’s been scorned.

“Absolutely not,” says Freddie.

“And why is that? I don’t live here,” Brian says.

“You might as well,” Freddie shoots back, “You’re here all the bloody time.”

Roger shakes his head in amusement when John uses Freddie’s distracted state to clear the rest of the items off and bring them to the kitchen. John catches his eye over the countertop and shoots him a wink before calling, “Are you helping me or what, Freddie?”

Freddie gasps when he turns around and sees John is already running the tap and putting dish soap on the sponge.

“You scoundrel!” he exclaims as he dashes to the kitchen with the rest of the dishes.

John is impressed with how quickly Freddie is able to make it to the sink, but he doesn’t move when Freddie tries to playfully bump him out of the way with his hip.

“Let me help, Freddie,” John says, “As a thank you for the wonderful meal.”

“Oh, alright,” Freddie says with an exaggerated pout before picking up a towel and grabbing the clean plate John holds out for him. 

“You thought the meal was wonderful?” Freddie asks after a moment.

“Of course,” John says sincerely, “I’ll take this over a sad sandwich in my room any day.”

“Well, our door is always open for you.”

“Hm. And when do I go from being a guest to a moocher?” John says with a cheeky grin.

“Never, darling,” Freddie says before turning his head to the living room and saying a bit louder, “That title is only reserved for Brian.”

Brian looks over his shoulder, confused. “What?”

“Nothing!” Freddie calls before blowing him a kiss. Brian just rolls his eyes and goes back to his conversation with Roger.

John turns his attention back on the dishes, focusing on a particularly stubborn bit of burnt pasta sauce in the pan. He hopes his pointed focus will deter any more conversation because he doesn’t know if he can say anything right now without his voice catching. A warmth had started to bloom across his chest as soon as Freddie told him their door was always open and it had grown enough to threaten to spill out of him. No one had ever made him feel so welcome since his childhood best friend gave him the secret password to her treehouse.

Whatever God is out there listening, John is thankful to them, because for the first time in the few days since he’s known him, Freddie doesn’t fill the dead space with more comments and questions. It isn’t until they are almost done with the dishes that he speaks again.

“You know, I meant what I said at practice, John,” Freddie says softly.

John lifts his eyes to meet Freddie’s; there’s something about his tone of voice that tells John he needs to listen.

“You’re a marvelous bassist,” Freddie continues. He looks into John’s eyes for one more moment before saying, “Don’t ever doubt yourself.”

John can’t form words, so he simply nods in response. It’s the most sincere compliment he’s ever gotten in his life.

Once he can speak again, he tries to lighten the mood.

“So I suppose it’s you who pushed for me?” he teases, but it comes out sounding more earnest than he anticipated.

Before Freddie has a chance to reply, Brian slaps on the counter in front of them, startling them both out of the moment.

“Alright, lads,” he says, “It’s getting late, so I’ll be heading out now.”

“Goodbye, darling,” Freddie says, “I’ll make sure to dream of you tonight.”

“Oh, shut it,” Brian grumbles before turning to John. “It was a pleasure speaking with you tonight, and I’ll see you Sunday for practice.”

John quickly wipes his hands on a dish towel before accepting Brian’s outstretched hand over the countertop. “I’ll see you Sunday.”

Once Brian leaves, Freddie continues their conversation. “To answer your previous question, John: as much as I’d love to take all the credit for discovering an up-and-coming protege, it’s actually Roger who vouched for you.”

John shifts his gaze over to where Roger is now sprawled on the couch reading a magazine. “Is that so?”

“What?” Roger says, sensing the eyes on him.

“Nothing.” John leans on the counter with a grin. “Freddie was just telling me that you  _ vouched _ for me after auditions.”

Roger simply shrugs his shoulder and replies, “I know talent when I see it.”

John feels the heat rise in his cheeks and hopes his hair covers it up. Roger’s nonchalant way of speaking, as if John’s talent is the most obvious thing in the world, is almost too much to handle. He sucks in a deep breath and pushes himself off the counter.

“Right,” he says, “I should probably head out, too. I don’t want to miss the bus.”

“Don’t worry about that, I’ll drive you,” Roger says as he puts his magazine down on the side table.

“Oh, no, it’s no trouble, you’re right near the line,” John says almost too quickly, his nerves getting the better of him. If Roger notices, he doesn’t let on.

“Nonsense,” Roger says, already grabbing his keys off of the small credenza by the door. “You’re not far, no use in wasting bus fare.”

“And where was this hospitality when Brian was leaving?” Freddie teases.

“Oh, shut it, Fred,” Roger says before opening the door and looking at John. “Are you coming, Deacon?”

John’s heart skips a beat at Roger’s sudden and casual use of a nickname, even if it’s just his last name. “Yeah, yeah, of course.”

“Um, goodnight, Freddie,” he says, “Thank you again for dinner.”

Before John can react, Freddie is dragging him down into a warm hug. John hesitates for a moment before awkwardly placing his hands on Freddie’s upper back.

“Have a wonderful weekend, darling,” Freddie says once he breaks the hug. “I’ll see you on Sunday.”

***

“So, John,” Roger says as he pulls up to a stop light. He flicks a glance towards John and notices how the red light plays against the waves of his brown hair.

“Can you tell us about this band you were in?”

Roger internally cringes. It sounds like he’s trying to interview John. Which, to be fair, he sort of is, but he has to make sure their bassist isn’t going to shrink in the spotlight. The seed was planted during dinner, and it's already grown enough to nag at his mind.

“Oh,” John says, “I’m afraid it’s not terribly interesting. Me and a few classmates just started playing together and eventually we got good enough to take gigs. We really just did covers and things like that. I started out on guitar, but I quickly realized I much prefer bass, so we switched things around and that was that.”

“What sort of gigs did you play?” Roger asks. The light turns green and he accelerates forward.

“All kinds of stuff,” says John, “parties, dances, we even got a wedding once.” John shifts in his seat to turn more towards Roger before he continues. “But, you know how it goes. We all graduated and went our separate ways. I gave up on music for a bit, thought I should focus on my degree, but I missed it too much. So I brought my bass back down here with me and started to play again, but I must admit, it’s terribly lonely to play the bass all by yourself. And then, I dunno, I saw your flyer and-- well, you know the rest.”

A moment hangs in the air between them before Roger cracks a smile and looks at John from the corner of his eye. “You know, that’s the most you’ve said all evening.”

John laughs and brings a hand to his face to cover the blush growing high in his cheeks.

“Sorry,” he says, “I’m not-- I’m not all that great around new people.”

“But you can play in front of a room full of strangers?” Roger laughs.

“Well, I don’t have to talk to them, now, do I?” John brushes away a piece of hair that had fallen in front of his eye.

“Fair point,” Roger says.

John chuckles and plays with his fingers. The evening had thoroughly exhausted him. Between all the questions and attention, he feels drained.

He also has a burning question running through his mind. He picks at his nails and turns it over in his mind for a few minutes, worrying as to whether he should ask or not. He finally decides to go for it.

“Roger,” he starts, “Can I ask you a question?”

“What up?” Roger says.

“Um,” John bites on his lip for a moment as he decides how to phrase the next bit. “Freddie… is he always so--”

“Flamboyant?” Roger asks with a grin.

“Well, I was going to say extraverted.” John chuckles.

“No, he’s not really like that,” Roger answers candidly, “He just turns it on like a performance for new people and crowds and the like. It’s quite impressive, actually. Watch, soon you’ll see the real him, which can be just as dramatic, don’t get me wrong, but honestly he’s pretty gentle. Don’t tell him I said that though. He’d kill me for tarnishing his image.”

“My lips are sealed,” John replies, but his real question still isn’t answered. After spending the last five hours around Freddie, he’s almost positive that the eccentric singer is like him, though that’s not something he can just come right out and ask. Still, if it turns out that he is, then John can put his own fears to bed about hiding his true self in front of his new friends.

As if reading his mind, Roger continues. “And I know he can be all flirty and touchy, but I promise that’s just part of his games, he doesn’t mean anything behind it.” 

“What, am I that ugly?” John jokes, laughing when he sees Roger’s shocked expression.

“No! No, not at all,” Roger stumbles and John can’t help but bring his hand up to hide his face again at the accidental compliment. “I just mean... you know. He has a girlfriend and all.”

And there it is.

John quickly stuffs down his disappointment and puts a smile back on his face.

“Don’t worry, I was only taking the piss,” he says.

Roger casts a sidelong glance at John while he pulls into the small parking lot of his residence hall. “Freddie was right,” he teases, “You are a tricky one.”

“What can I say? Gotta keep ‘em on their toes somehow.”

“Yeah, you do,” Roger says and John’s stomach does a little flip.

“Right, um,” John unbuckles his seat. “Can you unlock the back?”

“Sure thing, mate.” Roger takes his keys out of the ignition and hops out of the van.

John presses his hands against his cheeks to try and cool them and hopes the cover of night is enough to hide any of the remaining rosiness. He joins Roger at the back and slides his case out of the trunk. He very much appreciates having something in his hands.

“Goodnight, then,” he says softly, as Roger closes the back doors.

“Goodnight, mate.” Roger claps him on his upper arm. “Look forward to seeing you.”

John grips harder on the handle and clears his throat before saying, “You, too.”

He gives one more small nod before turning away and heading towards the large double doors of his residence hall. Just before he grabs the brass handle, he hears the van door slam and looks back to see Roger turn on the engine and light a cigarette hanging loosely from his mouth. He stares for a moment longer than he should have, and is thankful Roger doesn’t seem to notice.

He shakes himself out of it and throws open the door. He needs to put this silly infatuation to rest as soon as possible; it’ll lead nowhere good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, lovelies! I hope you liked this chapter!


	3. Grandma's Garden Hat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by the goddamn sunhat Freddie made poor John wear at one of their first gigs together lol

Roger lights his pre-show cigarette and eavesdrops on the conversation happening in front of him. Well, is it eavesdropping if they’re five feet away and yelling at each other?

“You already stuffed me inside a pair of satin pants,” John argues, “I am _not_ wearing a bloody sunhat out on that stage.”

“John, you’re not listening to me!” Freddie tries to reason. “We need to curate a look that’s different, interesting. And I’m sorry, but your jeans and t-shirts won’t cut it.”

“Okay, but how is _this_ ‘interesting’?” John asks, shaking the hat for emphasis. “This looks like something my grandma would wear to her garden. I’ll look--”

“You’ll look memorable,” Freddie interrupts.

“I’ll look like a bloody court jester!”

Freddie almost says something, but instead he presses his lips shut and shakes his head in frustration, biting back whatever comment he was about to make.

“I’m not dealing with this right now. Either wear it or don’t.” Freddie turns on his heel and throws open the door of the back office they’re using as a makeshift dressing room. “I have to go help Brian finish setting up.”

John rolls his eyes and tosses the hat on the little desk strewn with Freddie’s makeup and sits in the beat up swivel chair.

Roger takes a drag from his cigarette and observes him for a moment. The shy kid who auditioned for them three weeks ago isn’t the person in front of him now. Sure, he’s still quiet, mild-mannered, and remains stubbornly private, but it’s clear he’s also the type to make his opinion heard when it actually matters to him.

John fiddles with the brim of the woven hat and looks like he wants to say something. Roger simply leans back on the cracked leather couch and waits for him to speak, he’s figured out by now that John is usually more open when he isn’t pushed.

“I’m not an arsehole, am I?” John finally asks without looking at Roger.

The question is so genuine that Roger can’t help but smile.

“No,” Roger says simply.

“Well, I feel like an arsehole.” John picks up the hat and twirls it lamely in his hands.

“Cigarette?” Roger holds out his carton in an offering to John, who simply nods and walks over to join Roger on the couch, still holding the goofy sunhat. Roger fishes the lighter out of his pocket and passes it to John.

“Look,” he continues as John lights his cigarette. “Freddie means well, but he can be a bit pushy. Brian, too. And me, if I’m being honest. Don’t feel bad about sticking up for yourself.”

“I don’t like to lose my top,” John says, passing the lighter back to Roger.

“Why not? I do it all the time. Just for fun, sometimes.”

“I dunno. It never solves anything.” John folds one leg under the other and turns so he’s resting his arm against the back of the couch.

“You don’t have to wear the sunhat anymore. It solved that problem.”

“And Freddie hates me now, so it created a new one.”

“Oh, come on now, you know Freddie doesn’t hate you.”

Roger’s assurances don’t seem to do much good, because John keeps his eyes cast downwards and drums on the hat with his free hand.

“But,” Roger adds, taking the sunhat out of John’s lap and turning to him. “If you’re intent on winning his undying love and affection, you can always just…”

He places the sunhat on top of John's head and adjusts his hair over his shoulders; it’s surprisingly soft. “Wear the bloody thing.”

“Is that what you’d do?” John asks.

“No.” Roger says, breaking his eyes away from John’s hair and shifting back forward. “I’d extend the fight another week simply out of principle.”

John looks up at the brim of the hat and fiddles with it, like he’s considering all of his options. 

“Well, how do I look?” he finally asks.

“Utterly ridiculous,” Roger teases, surprised at the hint of adoration hiding behind his voice.

John rolls his eyes but can’t bite back the smile growing on his face. He takes a drag off his cigarette and picks at the skin around his nails. The nervous energy radiating off of him is as palpable as the day he auditioned.

“Are you nervous?” Roger asks gently.

“I wasn’t until the costume parade started,” John says. He takes another drag from his cigarette before adding quietly, “I just don’t want to look stupid.”

“You’re not going to look stupid,” Roger says sincerely. “You’ve just got to own it.”

“Come on,” Roger says when John doesn’t reply. He stamps out the butt of his cigarette in the ashtray beside him and heaves himself off the couch, offering his hands out to John to pull him up. “It won’t be bad, I promise.”

John considers him for a moment. He’d been lying to Roger when he said he wasn’t nervous. Of course he’s nervous. He’s scared shitless. The anxiety that had been roiling in his stomach all day came to a head when Freddie whisked through the office door with a mountain of clothes and started dressing him in a flurry. His clothes were his last bit of security, his last bit of normalcy. Now, dressed in Freddie’s black satin pants and floral silk button down, he may as well go on that stage naked for how exposed he feels.

But, something about Roger’s voice sounds so assured that John is inclined to believe him.

“Alright,” John finally replies, stamping out his cigarette and accepting Roger’s outstretched hands with a dramatic _thwack_. Roger pulls him up, making a grand show of just how much “effort” it takes to pull John off the couch.

By the time he’s standing, he’s laughing and some of the anxiety clenching his insides see,s to loosen. After a moment he realizes he’s still holding Roger’s hands, but before he can overthink it, Roger extracts his hands from John’s and gives him a friendly clap on the back.

“Come on, Granny,” Roger teases, “let’s go give them a show.”

John grabs his bass from beside the couch and pulls the strap over his head. As Roger ushers him out the door, he hugs the bass to his chest like it’s a lone piece of driftwood in the middle of a rocky sea.

***

When they exit the office, they find Freddie and Brian standing near the stage. The bar is packed and most people already seem fairly sloshed, which in some odd way, makes John feel better. Playing for an empty bar where polite patrons shoot pitying glances their way as they try and figure out how to duck out as soon as possible sounds like it would be hell on earth. A faceless crowd of drunk and rowdy college kids is much preferable in comparison.

When Freddie sees them, he looks directly at John. He doesn’t say anything, but the smile on his face tells John all he needs to know.

“Are you ready?” Brian asks the group.

“Yes,” John manages to get out.

“Come on, darling,” Freddie says, putting his arm around John’s shoulder. “You’ll be fantastic.”

John lets Freddie lead him up the steps to their small stage. The stage lights are hot, but they wash out the crowd of people and John finds it a little easier to breathe. He plugs his bass into the amp and drifts upstage to stand closer to the risers.

Freddie warms up the crowd with a little pre-show banter and the laughs and harmless heckles thrown back at them indicates that this will be a good crowd. John looks back at Roger who whispers, _“You’ve got this, Granny.”_

John brings a hand to his face to hide his growing smile and turns his attention back to Freddie. Finally, when Freddie’s had his fun, he leans into the mic and says, “Alright, darlings, enough teasing. Let’s get on with the show.”

And with that, Roger counts them in.

One.

John locks eyes with Roger.

Two.

He squeezes the neck of his bass.

Three.

His fingers press down on the strings.

Four.

He plucks the first note.

And then the next.

And then the next.

And then he realizes… He’s playing. He’s actually fucking playing. He’s playing on stage, in front of a crowd, in a fucking sunhat and the world isn’t crashing down. Or burning up. He’s okay. In fact, he’s better than okay… He’s having fun.

It feels like lightning courses down his arms and through his fingertips.

Soon, the crowd melts away. It becomes about him and Roger leading the heartbeat of the music. He stays near the risers the entire time, sometimes hopping up on it to feel the beat course through his legs, looking to Roger for cues and relishing in the smiles he sends his way.

By the time their set is over, John is absolutely buzzing, riding a high that only comes from a good performance. He’s so far up in space that he doesn’t even care when Freddie hooks his arm around John’s waist and drags him downstage.

“Now, lovelies, I think we need an extra round of applause for Queen’s newest member: the brilliantly talented, sexy, and _single_ John Deacon!” Freddie gives his waist an extra squeeze as the crowd whoops and hollers. John can feel his face heating up, but he can’t deny the rush of excitement that flows through him.

“Now, John,” Freddie says, releasing John from his grip. “Anything you’d like to say to your adoring fans?”

“Oh, goodness,” John says into the mic now shoved in his face. “Um, you’ve all been lovely.”

Suddenly, a funny thought pops into his head. It’s silly and stupid, but adrenaline is a funny thing and he’s too giddy to think it through and stop himself.

“In fact,” John continues, “Here.” 

He takes off the sunhat and tosses it into the crowd.

“A little souvenir as a sign of my appreciation,” he says over the cheers from the group of girls who must have caught it.

He laughs at Freddie’s shocked expression and goes back to his spot by the drums. He catches Roger’s eye who is clearly trying to hold back a laugh himself and a wave of relief washes over him. His first performance is over. He survived. He didn’t look stupid. But most of all, people actually seemed to like him.

***

After changing back into their normal clothes and packing up the van, Roger and John stand at the bar while Freddie and Brian chat in a nearby booth. Roger had half-expected Freddie to kick up a big fuss over John’s stunt once they got offstage, but he said nothing. It makes sense well enough. Freddie loves a good crowd-pleasing moment and judging by the cheers from whoever caught the hat, John had clearly won them over.

“So, is tonight the night I finally get to meet Drunk Deacon?” Roger asks as he leans over the bar and waits to get the bartender’s attention.

John rests one elbow on the bar and looks towards Roger.

“Only if you’re buying,” John says in a tone of voice that if he were a girl, Roger would have sworn she was flirting.

When he looks back, he sees a mischievous glint in John’s eye. He considers the offer for a moment and decides it’s well worth it.

“Deal,” he says.

“Alright,” John says, turning fully to lean over the bar with Roger. “But, if I get messy, it’s your fault.”

“I claim full responsibility,” Roger says. “What are you having?”

“Vodka tonic.”

“Vodka tonic?” Roger laughs. “But that’s a lady’s drink!”

“Well, the ladies know how to get efficiently drunk,” John bats back. “You’ll be thanking me when it only takes three drinks for me to get hammered.”

“You’re a lightweight?”

John doesn’t reply. He simply looks down at his tiny frame before looking back at Roger with an expression that clearly says _“Are you really asking me this?”_

Roger can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of him. He finally grabs the bartender’s attention and orders John’s drink and a beer for himself. He smiles to himself when he sees John bopping his head slightly to the dance music the bar is pumping through the speakers.

“I can’t believe you threw that damn hat into the crowd,” Roger says when he hands John his drink; he can’t get John’s playful act of rebellion out of his head.

“I never have to see it again now, do I?” John says before he brings the plastic cup to his lips.

“You’re sneaky,” Roger muses before taking a swig of his own drink.

John simply looks over the top of his cup and hums. By the time he brings the drink away, he’s already downed about half of it.

“We should go and join the others,” John says.

***

John wasn’t lying when he said three drinks was all it would take.

Drunk Deacon, Roger has discovered, is a giggly, touchy, talkative mess. In the past forty five minutes, he’s learned more about his new friend than he has in the past three weeks, including: how he fell in love with Marilyn Monroe as a child, what it was like to grow up without his dad, the time he took his sister’s radio apart to see what was inside, and how he’s very, very, very thankful he auditioned for the band, even though he was so scared he was tempted to run straight out the room.

The entire display is nothing short of endearing and Roger can’t help but smile as John wraps his arms around Freddie and goes on a long tangent about how he’s the most beautiful singer he’s ever heard in his entire life.

“Oh, you flatter,” Freddie says, petting John’s hair.

“No, I don’t,” argues John. “It’s not flattery if it’s the truth.”

“Are you just trying to butter me up?” Freddie teases.

“What could I possibly be buttering you up for?” John asks. “You already love me.”

“There’s no denying that, darling.”

John pops his head off of Freddie’s shoulder with a gasp before breaking into a huge smile. “Let’s go have a dance.”

“You dance?” Roger can’t help butting in.

“Of course, who doesn’t?” John replies before stumbling out of the booth. He steadies himself on the table and holds his hand out to Freddie. 

“Oh, alright,” Freddie says and accepts John’s hand. Roger chuckles as he watches John unceremoniously drag Freddie out to the dance floor.

“This was so worth three pounds,” Roger says.

“Is that all you spent?” Brian asks with a laugh. “I wish my dates were that cheap.”

“Oi!” Roger pops Brian’s leg with the back of his hand. “Shut it.”

Roger props his foot up on the now-empty booth in front of him and slouches down, watching the scene unfold in front of him. John is a surprisingly good dancer, even in his drunken state, though that shouldn’t surprise Roger with the way he was bopping around on stage once the nerves finally left him. John laughs with Freddie and twirls him around, pulling him in close and dipping him for good measure. They’re easy and free out there - Roger would join them, but he isn’t drunk enough for that.

John, on the other hand, can’t remember the last time he got this drunk. After a year of sneaking off to the disco alone and anonymous, its nice to get drunk with a group of friends. Although, he might be embarrassed in the morning of all the things he let slip to his new friends tonight, but it’s nothing that wouldn’t have come out in time. And it’s nice to not overthink, to not measure out every word and reaction before putting it forth into the world.

Right here, right now, with his vision slightly blurry and the music slightly garbled, he can say what he wants and do as he pleases. And what he wants is to dance with his friend. He grabs Freddie’s hand and twirls him again, laughing when Freddie throws his arms around his neck, dragging him down slightly.

“So, where did you learn these moves?” Freddie has to yell in John’s ear to be heard over the music pumping through the speakers overhead.

“I dunno,” John yells back. “Maybe I was just born with them.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Freddie says before taking John’s hands again.

“Freddie?” John yells after a moment, leaning in slightly. Even though Freddie had been lovely all night, he still has the nagging worry that he’s mad at him over their argument earlier. Usually, he’d ignore the problem, try and tamp it down without too much confrontation, but the liquid courage sloshing around in his empty stomach has him pressing forward.

“What is it, darling?”

“Listen,” he says, “I want you to know that I don’t mind the costumes and all. I just-- Maybe next time I could get a little more warning? And perhaps a small say in what I wear. And I’ll pay you back for the hat, I promise.” John rushes to tack on the last sentence as Freddie pulls away with a roaring laughter.

“John, you must stop with this needless worrying!” Freddie says, squeezing his hands.

John cracks a huge smile and pulls Freddie into a tight hug. Once he pushes away, he stumbles a bit over his feet before Freddie is able to right him.

“I need a smoke,” John says, brushing his wild hair off of his dampening forehead.

“Alright, love, let’s get you back to the table,” Freddie says as he guides John off the dance floor.

Roger starts a little when John slams his hands down on the table, unsteady on his feet. His eyes have the glassy, faraway look of someone who won’t remember any of this by tomorrow morning.

“Anyone care for a smoke?” John slurs slightly.

“Yeah, alright,” Roger replies; he figures some fresh air might do John some good right now.

“Great!” John’s face lights up as his eyes try to focus on Roger. “Can I bum another cigarette off you?”

Roger chuckles softly and shakes his head.

‘Course,” Roger says before sliding out of the booth and hooking his arm around John’s waist to steady him. He buckles slightly when John leans practically all of his weight into Roger’s side.

“Come on, Deacon, let’s go.” Roger’s voice is slightly strained as he adjusts the dead weight beside him.

They stumble through the crowded bar with Roger mumbling half-hearted apologies to the people who don’t move out their way in time. Once they get outside, he leans John up against the brick wall of the bar.

“It was hot in there,” John says, his voice sounding slightly hoarse, probably from all of the yelling they had to do inside.

“There were lots of people,” Roger replies. He pulls out his pack and slaps it on the heel of his hand a few times before drawing two cigarettes. He lights his own before handing his lighter to John.

John tries to turn the lighter on, but he can’t turn the wheel hard enough to get the flame to catch. Roger lets him struggle with the lighter for a minute because the sight of his shy bandmate with a cigarette hanging limply from his lips, eyes defocused, silently cursing a lighter is just too funny to cut short.

Finally, he takes pity and grabs the lighter from John’s hand. He flicks it on and cups his hand over the flame to prevent it from blowing out. He brings the flame up to the cigarette and watches as John presses his lips around the filter and pinches the cigarette between his thumb and pointer finger. The soft glow of the flame flickers against John’s lips as he sucks in a breath to catch the light.

When John pulls away from the flame, Roger realizes what he’s staring at and breaks his gaze, opting to watch the people milling about in front of the disco across the street.

“Hi, there.” An unfamiliar voice catches Roger’s attention. He turns his head to see an absolutely gorgeous girl with huge brown eyes and dark brown hair that falls in soft waves over her shoulders walking up to them.

“Hello,” Roger says in a smooth voice at the same time as John drawls out a “Hallo.”

Roger straightens up and lets his eyes wander down her body. Her shoulders are bare and her halter top plunges into a deep v-neck. His gaze travels lower, but he can’t see how short her skirt is because she is holding in front of it, of all things, the fucking sunhat. That’s when he realizes that her focus is entirely trained on the drunk bassist standing beside him.

“I’m surprised I was able to find you,” the girl says, a flirtatious smile tugging at her lips.

“Me?” John asks as if a woman has never paid him attention before.

“Yes, you!” She giggles. “I caught your souvenir. Thought you might like it back.”

John’s eyes go wide as he notices what’s in her hands. “Oh, God, no. You can keep it.”

“Well, thank you,” she says before pausing for a moment, like she’s considering something.

“Listen,” she says, “A few of my friends and I are going to a club a few blocks up, would you like to join us?”

“That’s probably not the best idea,” John responds to Roger’s shock and horror. “I’ve already made enough of a fool of myself tonight, probably best to quit while I’m ahead.”

“Oh.” Disappointment flashes across the girl’s face for only a moment before she recovers. “Alright. Well, maybe I’ll catch your gig again sometime.”

“Yeah, maybe,” John says. The girl looks between the two of them before giving a short nod and breaking away from them.

“Have a good night!” Roger calls after the girl as she goes back inside the pub.

“I swear that bloody hat is cursed,” John says as if he didn’t just reject a guaranteed pull. “Watch, it’ll turn up on my pillow tonight. Or maybe in my lecture on Monday morning.”

“John?” Roger interrupts John’s ramblings.

“Yeah?”

“Did you not notice that bird was trying to pull you?”

“I noticed,” John says easily.

“Then why did you blow her off?” Roger sputters out, “She was bloody gorgeous!”

John shrugs and says, “Not my type,” as if it’s obvious.

Roger barks out a laugh and sweeps his fringe out of his eyes. “Alright then, what is your type?”

John rolls his head to lock eyes with Roger. He takes a drag from his cigarette and looks like he’s thinking something over in his head, as best he can in his drunken state.

“Blondes.”

He says it so definitively that it makes Roger’s breath catch in his throat.

He only realizes his mouth is hanging slightly open when John breaks down into a fit of laughter and slightly doubles over.

“Blondes. Is that-- Is that the only requirement?” Roger stutters out once he’s found his breath again.

John straightens and leans his head against the brick wall, his eyes trained upwards towards the cloudy night sky.

“And funny,” he finally adds. “Funny blondes.”

“Funny blondes,” Roger affirms.

“Yeah,” John says flicking his gaze back down and turning to Roger. “What’s the point if they can’t make you laugh, right?”

***

Roger chuckles at the sight in his rearview mirror. Freddie had called the passenger seat, leaving Brian to take care of a nearly passed out John in the back.

“You alright back there?” Roger asks quietly when John slumps down onto Brian’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” Brian whispers, careful not to move too much. For a man so large and brooding, he has an undeniable soft side to him.

“Remind me why you got the poor kid so drunk?” Brian asks.

Roger shrugs his shoulders. “Curiosity.”

The van goes over a bump and Roger cringes at the loud clang of his improperly packed cymbals rolling around in the trunk of the van. He checks in the rearview mirror again at the same time as Freddie turns around in his seat.

“Oh, he’s properly passed out now,” Freddie says. “He should probably stay at ours tonight. Don’t want him choking to death on his own sick.”

“You’re probably right,” Roger replies.

***

“Oi, mate, wake up,” Roger says, lightly slapping at John’s cheeks to try and rouse him. After dropping Brian off at his flat, John sprawled across the backseat, dead to the world.

John lazily tries to swat Roger’s hand away, but Roger doesn’t let up.

“John,” he says a little louder, “John wake up, we’ve got to get you upstairs.”

“No,” John mumbles.

“Yes,” Roger replies. “Come on. I’m not going to stop until you get up.”

After a few more rough shakes of his shoulder, John finally props himself up on his elbows and glares at Roger through bleary eyes.

“We’ve got to get upstairs,” Roger repeats.

John grumbles in response, but swings his legs off the seat. Roger helps him stumble out of the van and puts one of John’s arms around his shoulder while Freddie takes the other side. With a bit of effort, he closes the van door and locks it so the three can start their trek.

Once they finally make it inside, John erupts into a fit of giggles over some unknown circumstance.

“You alright, mate?” Roger asks.

“I’m going to break my ankle on that,” John says through breaks in his laughter, pointing at the old and worn marble staircase before them that was once surely grand, but now looks rather sad.

“Darling, we won’t let that happen,” Freddie assures as he tries to get them walking again.

“No, hold on,” John says, suddenly unhooking his arms from around their shoulders and breaking away to the wall. With his back against the wood paneling, he leans over and unzips his platforms. He wrestles them off and casts them aside before stumbling to the stairs.

“Christ almighty,” Freddie says before dashing to collect the shoes as Roger runs to grab hold of John.

Once Freddie catches up with them, shoes in hand, they begin their journey up the steps. Roger wonders if it might be easier to climb a mountain with a toddler than try and get John up the stairs.

“Am I this bad when I’m plastered?” Roger asks after he and Freddie catch John from a near disastrous stumble. He tightens his grip around John’s waist and prays that they make it up the last flight unscathed.

“You’re worse,” Freddie says with a laugh.

“I can hear you, you know,” John cuts in.

“Yes, but you won’t remember any of this tomorrow,” Freddie says with a little crinkle of his nose that gives away just how much John had wormed his way into Freddie’s heart.

When they finally make it to their door, Roger unlocks it and the three stumble inside. Roger helps John down on the couch while Freddie throws the shoes down and flicks on a lamp.

Once he’s sure that John won’t be falling off the couch, Roger heads to the kitchen to grab a glass of water.

“Alright, darling, on your stomach,” he hears Freddie say. “If you need to throw up, the trashcan is right here.”

He looks over the counter to see Freddie pulling an orange and brown crochet throw blanket over John’s shoulders.

“Wish you were this nice to me when I’m passed out,” Roger jokes.

“You’ve kept me up one to many times with your incessant fucking after a pub visit for me to ever take sympathy on you,” Freddie says as he makes his way to his bedroom door.

“Worth it.” Roger winks.

Freddie just gives an exasperated eye roll in response before disappearing into his room. Roger makes his way to the couch and sits at the edge of the coffee table.

“John,” Roger says softly. John opens only one eye and peers up at Roger. “Drink this. It’ll help.”

“What is it?” John mumbles as he props himself up on one elbow and takes the glass, peering down into it with curiosity.

“It’s just water, mate.” Roger chuckles. “You need it.”

John smiles up at Roger before guzzling down the entire glass. He hands it back to Roger before collapsing back onto the pillow, a drop of water still gleaming on his chin. Roger almost reaches out to wipe it off. Almost.

Instead, he leans over and places the glass on the side table.

“Are you going to be okay, Deaky?” he asks.

John’s eyes pop open and he looks at Roger in confusion. “What did you just call me?”

“Oh-- I… Sorry, I just--” Roger stammers over himself until John cracks a huge smile.

“I never had a proper nickname before,” he says as he buries himself further under the blanket.

Roger smiles to himself as he gets up and walks over to the floor lamp. The room is plunged back into darkness save for a narrow strip of amber cast across the floor from the streetlamp outside their window. He lets his eyes adjust for a moment before heading to his room.

Once he gets to his door, he looks back one more time to the couch.

“Goodnight, Deaky,” he whispers before slipping into his room.

***

The sharp chill of the porcelain is long gone as John kneels over the toilet bowl; his sweaty forehead resting on one arm as he stares into the water while the other weakly holds back his hair.

He needs to throw up, he knows he does; the chill running through his body while the sweat drips down his back is enough evidence that his insides are about to turn out, but he can’t make himself do it. He’s already tried a few times to shove his fingers down his throat, induce his gag reflex, but he’s given up every time.

He’s resigned himself to leaning over the toilet bowl, letting the waves of nausea roll over him until his stomach finally decides to release its contents on its own. Maybe if he tries gagging, he can trick his stomach into heaving over.

He steels himself with one knee on either side of the toilet and makes sure all of his hair is out of his face. He peers down into the bowl and starts to gag. After a few attempts, his stomach finally gets the message. Before he can stop it, his abdomen is clenching and he heaves as wave after wave of sick makes its way up and out of his body.

Maybe it’s a good thing he was too nervous to eat before the show as he doesn’t have to deal with chunks of food making its way back up his throat.

Once he finally gets it all out, he spits into the bowl and flushes the evidence away. He doesn’t have the strength to move just yet, so he collapses on top of the bowl, too tired to worry about how disgusting that is.

As he catches his breath, the tap starts to run in the kitchen. Soon, he hears the bathroom door swing open, but he can’t make himself care enough to look up and see who it is.

“Morning!” John winces at Roger’s loud voice.

“No,” John says, waving Roger away.

“Hm,” Roger says. John feels a nudge against his leg and finally wills himself to look up at Roger’s frankly too-cheery face.

“That’s no way to treat the person who took such good care of you in your legless state,” Roger teases as he hands John the glass of water. “I even shared my cigarettes and all.”

“Oh, God,” John moans. For the life of him, he can’t remember anything after he pulled Freddie onto the dance floor. “Please tell me I wasn’t awful.”

“No. You only embarrassed yourself a little.” Roger winks which only makes John worry even more.

“Don’t worry about it, Deaks, you were fine,” Roger finally says.

Wait a second. John realizes there is something he remembers. Right before John passed out, Roger had called him Deaky. He had wanted to giggle himself to death out of sheer happiness and it had taken everything in him not to.

He should just let it go, not make a big deal of it, but even though his hangover, he can’t help being a bit of a smartass.

“Wow, two nicknames in twenty four hours?” John says as he hands back the glass. “You must really like me.”

And as if karma herself were right in the room with them, John feels another wave of nausea wash over him. He quickly leans over the toilet and throws up what he can only assume is pure stomach acid. It burns coming up and soon he’s shaking all over again.

He can hear Roger laughing at him, so he weakly throws up the bird in his general direction, which only makes Roger laugh even harder. And even in his misery, with the taste of sick in his mouth and a splitting headache behind his eyes, he can’t help but feel a little bit of joy swell up inside his chest. He spits one more time and lets a small smile play on his lips for only the toilet bowl to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woof. This was a long chapter lol. But I had so much fun writing drunk Deaky! I hope y'all liked this chapter!


	4. Rockstar

The warm summer air floats through the open window as John works out a particularly difficult maths set. He’s been holed up in his room for days as exams and final projects loom too close for comfort.

A sharp knock rings through John’s door and a gruff voice calls out, “Telephone!”

John scoots his chair back, slightly confused: he isn’t expecting any calls. He opens the door and gives a quick thanks to the guy already walking back into his own room.

With exams approaching, his floor is quieter than normal. He hears The Beatles drift out through an open door down the hall and passes an either ridiculously tired or ridiculously stoned girl while on his way to the phone, but other than that, there’s nothing.

“Hello?” John asks into the receiver.

“Deaky!” John jumps back at the loud voice on the other end of the line, pulling the phone away from his ear before carefully replacing it.

“Rog? What’s going on?” John asks as he fiddles with the coiled phone wire.

“Nothing really,” Roger says, “I just haven’t seen you in  _ forever _ .”

John giggles at his friend’s overdramatic statement. “I saw you three days ago.”

“Exactly!” Roger exclaims in such a way that it makes John’s heart swell a bit.

“What are you doing right now?” Roger continues, “Can I come over?”

“I’m actually working on a project today,” John says, the disappointment clear in his voice.

“That’s alright, I’ll be quiet.”

“So you want to come ‘round to just sit in my room?” John asks.

“Yeah, I’ll bring my book. I’m bored stiff over here,” Roger whines.

“Al-- Alright,” says John. He can feel the butterflies grow in his stomach. It’s not like they haven’t lazed about together before, but there has always been a reason. Whether it’s as simple as playing a board game or stopping by to check out a new record, they always have some excuse for seeing each other. This feels different, though. It feels… intimate? If that’s even the word for it. Roger wants to come by for no other reason than because he misses John’s company.

And though he isn’t as forthcoming with his emotions as Roger, John misses him, too. In the month since his first gig with the band, he and Roger have become attached at the hip. A day hasn’t gone by where the two haven’t seen each other, and in that time, they have made more inside jokes, become more comfortable with each other, and become more attuned to each other than John ever thought possible for such a short period of time. It hasn’t helped John’s stupid little crush one bit, but he’s happy to stamp down his feelings in favor of their growing friendship.

“When do you want to come by?” John asks.

“I’ll be there in twenty!” Roger says.

“Just come on up, you know the way.” John chuckles, trying to ignore the glow in his chest that wants to spill out all over the stained tan carpet.

***

Back in his room, John stares at the mess strewn across the small space. He’s usually a very neat person, but with his suddenly packed schedule, the little bits of clutter here and there have morphed their way into one amorphous explosion of clothes and bedding and books and random tech parts.

He springs into action and starts frantically cleaning. He straightens his bed covers, stuffs his clothes into his overflowing dresser, and tries to corral the tools, screws and wires dotting around his room into one corner of the floor. He shouldn’t be this worried over the neatness of his room. Judging by the continually disastrous state of Roger’s, he’s not one to care about a bit of mess. Still, the nerves need a way to come out somehow.

Once the floor is finally visible again, John props his door open and settles back down in the uncomfortable wooden seat at his desk. He draws one leg up to his chin and taps his pencil on the desk. Maybe if he pretends to concentrate for long enough, he’ll actually get some work done.

“Oi!” John hears Roger’s unmistakable voice behind him. He gets up just in time for Roger to drag him into a hug. He’s used to the band’s physical displays of affection now, so he wraps his arms around Roger without the hesitancy or awkwardness of two months ago.

“You actually brought a book,” John says, gesturing to the fantasy novel in Roger’s hand.

“‘Course, what’d you think I was gonna do?” Roger asks as he kicks off his shoes and hops on the bed like he’s at home. “Drag you out of here kicking and screaming for the nearest pub?”

“Honestly? Yes, a little,” John says, settling back down into his chair.

Roger gasps in feigned offence. “Who do you take me for?”

“A bad influence,” John teases.

“Me?” Roger peers over his book with a smile in his eyes. “Never.”

And for his part, Roger really does keep quiet. At least, he does his best. He’s able to keep his trap shut for almost thirty minutes - a record for him, really. 

“So…” Roger tests the waters, but John just gives him a knowing look out of the corner of his eye.

“Sorry,” Roger says quietly before disappearing behind his book, drawing a soft chuckle out of John.

As he sinks back into his novel, Roger starts to enjoy the soft silence between them. He’s never met anyone before where he can just be. Even though he’s loath to admit it, he and Freddie are very similar in that way: always performing, always on, always playing for an audience even when they’re alone. Maybe it’s John’s sharp radar for bullshit or maybe it’s his disinterest in being anything other than himself, but around him, Roger’s been finding himself dropping an act he didn’t even know he had on.

He doesn’t need to perform around John. He can tell his stupid, childish jokes and John will laugh all the same. He can rant and rave about whatever’s pissed him off that day and John will actually listen, no matter how overdramatic he’s being. They can talk for hours about cars and sci-fi and music and gossip and childhood dreams and everything and anything at all. And now, apparently, they can just be together with absolutely nothing to say and be all the happier for it.

It’s nice. It’s new and it’s strange, but it’s nice.

After a particularly sharp hunger pang grabs his attention, Roger flicks his eyes up at the clock to find that two hours have gone by. He didn’t even realize so much time had passed.

He looks towards John who is in deep concentration over the papers and books scattered before him. He’s like a contortionist with the way he is all folded up. One knee is drawn to his chest while the other foot is wrapped around the leg of his chair. He rests his cheek against his knee and his hand is over his head, pulling his hair out of his face. He has the bleary-eyed look of someone who definitely needs a break.

“Deaks,” Roger says. When John doesn’t answer, he tries again, a little louder. “Deaky.”

“Hm?” John hums without looking up from his paper.

“I’m starving.”

This earns Roger a raised eyebrow, so he tosses his book to the side and digs in a little more.

“Come on,” he says, “It’s well after four now, you must be hungry.”

John finally unfurls himself in an almost feline manner and stretches, he drops his head over the back of the chair as he does and looks at the clock behind him, which causes his hair to fall down in a wavy waterfall. As he brings his arms over his head, his shirt rides up a little, exposing the pale skin of his torso.

Roger searches for anything that isn’t the sight of his friend before him and decides the piece of thread coming off of John’s comforter suddenly looks very interesting.

“Where’d you have in mind?” John asks once he breaks from his stretch.

“Huh?” Roger looks up from the string he’s been picking at.

“Where’d you have in mind, Rog?” John repeats.

“Oh,” Roger says and clears his throat. John notices a slight blush across Roger’s cheekbones and wonders if it’s gotten too warm. The afternoon sun is hitting directly into John’s room now, bathing everything in a hot, golden light. He gets up and pulls his window shut, but it does nothing to block out the light.

“There’s a little fish and chips shop a few blocks from campus,” Roger continues, “Pretty cheap. Pretty good.”

“You’re just trying to tempt me away from my studies,” John teases, already picking through his pile of shoes on the floor trying to find a matching pair.

“No,” Roger says dramatically as he heaves himself off the bed. “I’m just being a good mate. Making sure you don’t starve to death in your quest for first-class.”

“You’re making sure  _ you _ don’t starve to death,” John corrects.

“Two birds, one stone,” Roger says as he opens the door. “Come on, then.”

John chuckles as he grabs his wallet off the dresser and follows Roger out the door.

***

“This is brilliant,” John says with a mouthful of fried fish. He realizes his bad manners and brings a hand to cover his mouth as he finishes chewing. Truthfully, he hasn’t eaten all day and he could probably stuff his face with five more baskets of the bounty in front of him.

“Why do you look so smug?” He asks when he catches the way Roger is looking at him with an eyebrow raised and a half-smile on his lips.

Roger simply shrugs in response before biting down on a ketchup-covered chip.

“Alright, you’ve got me.” John rolls his eyes. “I would have wasted away in my cave if you hadn’t rescued me and forced me to eat something.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Roger says, causing both of them to laugh.

The conversation flows from there, as it always does between them. John rambles on about his exams - all things that Roger can’t follow, but he lets him talk all the same. Eventually the conversation drifts, as it always does, back to the band. They have a gig coming up and they’re all feeling anxiety over debuting their new songs.

“You’ve gone quiet,” Roger prods after John finishes his soda and stares off in the distance past their booth.

“Sorry,” John says, snapping back to earth and bringing his attention back to Roger.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?”

“I promised Freddie he could take me shopping for a costume,” John says as he rips his paper napkin into bits and rolls the pieces into little balls between his fingers. “I dunno. I’m worried he’s going to put me on the stage in a sequin suit or something.”

“A sequin suit?” Roger laughs. “That’s the worst thing you can think of?”

“What do you mean?”

“Ah, that’s right,” Roger says as he pulls his carton of cigarettes from his pocket. “You haven’t seen Freddie’s cat suits yet.”

“His what?” John asks, his eyes wide.

Roger smiles around his cigarette as he lights it.

“Watch out,” he says after a drag. “If you’re not careful, he’ll have you up there in a spandex bodysuit.”

“Are you joking?” John squeaks out, making Roger inhale wrong around his cigarette and devolve into a fit of coughing and laughter.

“Come on!” Roger says once his coughing subsides. “Do you really think he’d let anyone upstage him?”

John isn’t too convinced with Roger’s assurances judging by the growing mountain of ant-sized snowballs on the table in front of him.

“Look,” Roger finally says, taking pity on his poor friend. “Do you want me to come along? I could make sure--”

“Would you, really?” John interrupts, relief flooding his eyes.

Roger can’t stop the smile growing on his face. “‘Course.”

***

John flicks through an overstuffed rack of clothes in the charity shop Freddie had dragged them to. He made them go all the way to Kensington because apparently  _ “that’s where all the rich bitches chuck last year’s Biba for us peasants to fight over.” _

Roger is chatting with Freddie’s girlfriend Mary just a few racks over while Freddie flits about the store, pulling things out before putting them back again. John silently hopes that whatever he picks won’t be too bad.

Whoever is supposed to be listening to his prayers, though, must be on break because soon Freddie sidles up beside him and John is face to face with a garish, red and white striped jacket that looks more like a circus tent than an article of clothing.

“Absolutely not,” John says.

“What do you mean?” Freddie asks. “You’ll look fantastic in this!”

“It’s about ten sizes too big!”

“Yes, that’s the point, darling,” Freddie tries to reason.

John can feel another argument bubbling, but before it has the chance to go any further, Roger appears on the other side of the rack.

“Hey, Fred, Mary’s asking for you,” he says.

“Tell her I’ll only be a moment.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll take over our pet project,” Roger says with a wink that makes the heat rise in John’s cheeks.

Freddie clicks his tongue. “Alright, have a go. But, I get final say.”

Freddie hands Roger the jacket before walking to the front where Mary is trying on a load of sunglasses. John watches as Roger tries on the jacket and observes himself in one of the many mirrors dotted around the place.

“You’re not actually considering that thing, are you?” John asks.

“Maybe,” Roger says, adjusting the collar. “I look good, don’t I?”

That’s a stupid question. Of course he looks good. He always looks good.

For a brief moment, John feels a pang of jealousy. Why can't he wear ridiculous outfits with confidence and ease like the others?

“How do you do it?” John asks before he has a chance to stop himself.

“Huh?” Roger looks at him with confusion. 

For a second, John considers brushing off the question and changing the subject; but it’s out there now, and he knows Roger isn’t one to let things go.

“How do you wear these things? I don’t know…” John pauses for a moment to rephrase the question. “How do you make stuff like that look good? I put that on and I’d look like a clown.”

Roger looks at him with an expression that John can’t quite place.

“Honestly?” Roger says, “I fake it. I act like I look good and it makes people think I look good. That’s all.”

“That’s all,” John repeats quietly, surprised by Roger’s frankness.

“Now,” Roger says, leaning his arms against the top of the rack with a glint in his eye. “Do you trust me?”

John’s heart jumps at the question. Even though he knows Roger is only messing, it makes John feel vulnerable and exposed because truthfully, he’d jump off a bridge if Roger told him to; and that is a scary fucking realization to have in the middle of a swanky charity shop in front of your best friend that you’ve only known for two months who is still wearing that ridiculous jacket and--

John realizes he hasn’t actually answered the question and snaps back into reality.

“Yes,” he says, hoping his voice doesn’t sound as shaky as it feels. “Of course.”

Roger cracks a smile that shines brighter than the sun. “Let’s get on with it then.”

John watches as Roger flicks through the racks. He pulls out a piece here and there, holding it up to John and shifting his gaze between John and the clothes. John has to consciously try not to shrink under the scrutiny and starts searching through the clothes himself, just to have something else to focus on.

“I think I found the winner,” he hears Roger say and turns to find Roger wearing a shit-eating grin and holding up a floor-length purple and orange paisley kaftan.

“I hate you,” John says, his smile giving him away.

“Okay, okay, I’ll be serious.” Roger laughs, putting the kaftan back on the rack.

He continues his search, intent on finding the perfect outfit for John. Something understated enough that he won’t spend the entire gig hiding behind his bass, but hot enough that he can pull a bird or two after the show. Usually this is Freddie’s area of expertise, and he does feel a bit weird dressing another bloke, but it’s John. And he’s quickly learned that like Freddie, he will do anything to help John.

It’s a scary thought, really. Scary enough that he’s happy to tell himself he’s only doing this for a bit of a laugh; and that’s what he convinces himself of while he pulls out item after item, laboring over whether they are “John” enough.

Finally, he finds what is, in his opinion, the perfect outfit.

“Here you are,” he says as he dumps the clothes into John’s arms.

“Are you sure?” John asks, feeling the white silk between his fingers and eyeing it suspiciously.

“Yes,” Roger says, “Now, off you go!”

John gives Roger one more look before he takes a deep breath and enters the small dressing room, pulling the curtain behind him. He dumps the clothes onto the wooden chair and makes quick work of changing.

He puts the pants on first: black satin bell bottoms similar to the ones Freddie put him in for their first gig. Next is the shirt; a white silk button down. He must admit, it feels nice, and seems more expensive than anything he owns. But when he tucks it in and buttons it up, it looks stuffy on him.

“And you’re sure that you’re sure about this?” John calls out.

“No complaints, Deaky!” he hears Roger say.

John rolls his eyes and mutters to himself as he grabs the black satin blazer. At least this jacket is the correct size. He buttons it and observes the whole outfit. It’s… not great. For a moment he wonders if he should have just accepted Freddie’s circus tent.

His fears are confirmed when he exits the dressing room and Roger descends into a fit of laughter at the sight of him.

“I look like a butler,” John says as he tugs on the cuffs of the blazer.

“Well, that’s because you did it wrong,” Roger says through bursts of laughter.

“How did I do it wrong?” John asks. “I’m wearing it like you’re bloody supposed to!”

“Alright, come here,” Roger says as his laughter subsides.

Before John can comprehend what is happening, Roger gets up from the blue velvet armchair he’s been lounging in and takes the few steps to John.

Roger unbuttons the blazer and tugs a little at the hem before moving to the shirt. John is rooted to the spot and can only pray that Roger can’t feel how fast his heart is racing. Roger makes quick work of unbuttoning the shirt, undoing them all the way to John’s sternum and untucking the shirt slightly to let it fall a little looser. He can feel Roger’s hands move to his shoulders as he turns him to face the trifold mirror.

The outfit  _ definitely _ does not make him look like a butler anymore. John can feel the heat rising in his cheeks again as he observes himself in the mirror. The bellbottoms make his legs look a mile long and the shirt is unbuttoned just enough that he looks simultaneously put together and disheveled. Add in the platforms and the bass guitar and he might even manage to look… sexy? That’s not an adjective John ever thought he’d use on himself, and yet here he is.

“There,” Roger says, meeting John’s eyes in the mirror. “Now you look like a rockstar.”

John swallows hard; he can’t look away from Roger’s large blue eyes. He’s acutely aware of the fact that Roger’s hands are still on his shoulders and Roger isn’t looking away either. 

Before he has time to overthink anything, a loud gasp breaks both of them from their trance. They jump away from each other like they’ve been burned and John turns to see Freddie standing behind them with his arm around Mary.

“Well done, Roger,” Freddie says as he moves to John. He smoothes the lapel on John’s blazer and smiles up at him like a proud parent.

“Watch out, love,” Freddie says, “In an outfit like this you’ll soon be fighting off groupies with a stick.”

“Oh, God.” John buries his face in his hands to hide his growing embarrassment with all this attention.

“I think I might be first in line,” Mary chimes in.

Freddie breaks away from John to snatch Mary into a playful bear hug, causing her to shriek in laughter as he says, “You’ll have to get in after me.”

John looks to Roger for any sort of assistance, but the amusement on his face tells John that he’s more than happy to just watch this all play out.

“I’m going to change,” John announces before quickly slipping back into the dressing room.

“Need any help?” Freddie jokes.

“Oh, leave the poor thing alone!” John hears Mary playfully admonish.

“You’re awful, Freddie!” John calls, the smile that’s been on his lips since he’s closed the curtain is clear in his voice.

“And yet you still love me!”

John chuckles to himself and takes one last look in the mirror before he starts to change back into his normal clothes. He really does look good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, I hope you're liking this story so far! I'm having a lot of fun writing it and can't wait for you to see what happens as the story goes on!


	5. A Bout of Existentialism

With the spring term over and his marks all firsts, John can finally breathe easy again. Well, he could if he wasn’t a bundle of nerves over their gig that starts in… Oh God, twenty minutes.

At least this club has an actual dressing room, even though it’s tiny. The bare bulbs around the mirror cast everything in a glamorous glow, although the lime green walls detract from the effect a bit.

Brian and Roger are arguing about God knows what, but John opts to stay out of it and retreats into his own mind. He fiddles with the silver rings on his middle and pinky fingers, trying not to let the nervous energy overtake him.

He’s so far in his own mind that he doesn’t even notice Freddie come up behind him and jumps at the sound of his voice.

“Close your eyes, darling,” Freddie says over the noise of Brian and Roger.

“What?” John asks once he recovers from his fright. He looks in the mirror to see Freddie standing behind him with his hands behind his back. “Why?”

“It’s a surprise.” Freddie winks.

John looks at him suspiciously for a moment before he complies. He feels Freddie brush his hair off to one side and the next moment there’s a cold bit of metal against his sternum and Freddie’s fingers are brushing up against the back of his neck. After a moment, his hands move to John’s shoulder where he feels a light squeeze, so he opens his eyes.

When he leans to the mirror, he sees that Freddie has adorned him with a gorgeous silver pendant in the shape of an arrow pointing downward. It looks like it was made to be there, nestled against his pale skin framed by the V of white silk on either side.

“Freddie, I can’t--”

“None of that, love!” Freddie interrupts.

John smiles and lightly touches the necklace like it might disappear on him. “Where did you get it?”

“I came across it at the stall. Was supposed to sell it, but as soon as I saw it, I knew it had to be yours.” Freddie leans in slightly with a mischievous smile on his face. “Don’t tell anyone, but I nicked it.”

John softly laughs at the confession and grabs Freddie’s hand. “It’s beautiful.”

“You’re going to be marvellous tonight, John,” Freddie says and in that moment, everything melts away - the argument happening behind him, his anxieties and fears - and John believes him.

It’s no secret that Freddie has taken it upon himself to be a pseudo-parent for John, and John can’t say he minds it. Of course, he could do without the pestering, the over-protectiveness, and the dreaded cheek-pinching, but it’s moments like these that make John’s heart ache a little. They remind him of what was stolen from him when his dad died.

He feels lucky to have been taken under Freddie’s wing. He will never be a replacement for his dad - John would never want him to be a replacement - but he will always feel like home. He will always be someone John can turn to, and that’s more than he ever could have wished for.

“Thank you,” John says quietly.

***

Roger did a damn good job of picking out John’s performance outfit. Maybe too good of a job.

The beat of the drums reverberate through Roger’s entire body and keep him tethered to the here and now. He’s lucky that the rhythm is muscle memory, because for the life of him, he cannot stay focused.

It all started well enough. The club was packed, Freddie got them all worked up, and they were off. He and John fell into sync as always, sharing their looks and smiles as they worked through the songs.

And then they got to the difficult bit in _Keep Yourself Alive._ And John hopped up onto the risers. And he licked his fingers like he always does before the hard parts and he dipped his head down and his silhouette against the stage lights was almost angelic.

And then he started shaking his fucking ass right in Roger’s face. And Roger realized just how tight John’s pants were. And then he realized he was staring. But he wasn’t just staring at _an_ ass.

He was staring at a _man’s_ ass.

He was staring at _John’s_ ass.

Roger had almost bolted from the stage right then and there, but he didn’t. He only faltered a little, but it was enough that John noticed, and when he looked back, Roger couldn’t meet his eye.

So now he’s playing on autopilot, the only thought running through his head is a continuous mantra of _“It was just a fluke. It was just a fluke. It was just a fluke.”_

Everyone looks sometimes: it was just a fluke. We all slip up now and again: it was just a fluke. It’s _John_ for fuck’s sake. His friend. His _male_ friend. It was just a fluke.

And that’s what he convinces himself of by the time their set is over. That’s what he convinces himself of when he feels the need to avert his gaze as John changes back into his jeans and button down. That’s what he convinces himself of when two pretty girls start chatting with him and Brian at the bar and he happily abandons Freddie and John to join them at their booth.

_It was just a fluke._

***

Roger nurses a vodka tonic (John was right, they are excellent for getting efficiently drunk) while he pretends to listen to the _riveting_ conversation happening before him.

The girl he is sitting with is pretty enough, and very charming. Every time her friend laughs too loud at one of Brian’s bad jokes or pretends to understand what he’s talking about, she shoots Roger a knowing look that makes him laugh like it’s their own inside joke. Soon, she’s running her hand up his thigh in a way that makes him forget all about his earlier troubles.

“So you’re studying astronomy?” the girl sitting next to Brian asks. “That’s like horoscopes and stuff, yeah?”

“No, that’s astrology,” Brian replies.

“Oh.” The poor girl sounds so disappointed that Roger can’t help the laughter that tumbles out of his mouth. Brain shoots him a withering glare, but Roger can’t bring himself to apologize.

“What are you studying?” Roger asks the girl as a sort of peace offering.

“Me and Lily are both working on our art history degrees,” she replies. “It’s how we met, actually.”

The girl next to him is named Lily. Good to know. As the conversation moves forward, Roger’s arm finds its way around Lily’s shoulders. He thinks he might actually be having a decent time when Brian nudges his foot and pulls him from his conversation with Lily.

“Looks like Deaky might be getting lucky tonight,” Brian says with a grin that spells gossip.

“What d’you mean?” Roger asks, pulling his arm from around Lily.

Brian doesn’t answer, just nods his head to the right. Roger follows the direction of Brian’s nod. On the opposite wall, Roger can clearly see John perched on the edge of a table chatting with a very pretty redhead. Roger feels something twist in his stomach, but it’s gone in an instant.

“Nah,” he blows it off before turning back to Lily, but Brian doesn’t seem to want to let it go.

“What do you mean, ‘nah’?” Brian asks.

“I mean she’s not his type is all,” says Roger.

Brian gives Roger a strange look before apparently deciding that the conversation isn’t worth having because he almost immediately goes back to chatting up Lily’s friend.

Roger can’t take being in this stuffy booth anymore, so he turns to Lily and asks, “Do you want to go have a dance?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Lily smiles at him as Roger helps her out of the booth.

He leads them down the two steps to the split-level dance floor. He’s not much for dancing, but he is one for feeling a woman’s body pressed against his own. He grabs Lily’s hips and pulls her in close, swaying with the music and letting the vodka flow through him. It doesn’t take long for their lips to meet and his senses are overwhelmed with the slightly alcoholic flavor of the fruity drink he had bought her earlier.

John sees all of this play out in slow motion. Adrien, the girl he's been stuck talking to for the last hour after all his friends abandoned him, doesn’t seem to notice that John has stopped paying attention, judging by the fact that he can still register her voice rambling on about something.

He can’t bring himself to care about whether or not he’s being rude. His eyes are stuck on Roger with his tongue down some random girl’s throat. It’s not like John doesn’t know that Roger is extremely straight - he’s heard enough stories and seen Roger flirt with enough women to know where his preferences lie; but in the few months he’s known Roger, he’s never had to come face to face with it the way he is now. And it hits him like a ton of bricks.

“Do you want to come with me?”

“Huh?” John snaps back to earth once he realizes he’s being asked a question. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that bit.”

“I said I’m going to meet a few of my mates out back, do you want to come with me?”

Normally John would say no, but he absolutely cannot stay here while Roger necks with a stranger in the middle of the dance floor not ten feet away.

“Sure,” he says and follows Adrien through the crowded bar area, down a dimly lit hallway to the back alleyway.

She leads them down to where two blokes are huddled close, passing a joint back and forth. The first fellow is about John’s height while the other guy looks to be well over six feet, built like one of those American linebackers. Together, they make a very odd pair.

“This is John,” Adrien says as they approach her friends.

The shorter one simply nods his head in response. The taller one looks like he’s about to do the same, but the second he lays eyes on John, his demeanor immediately changes.

“Hi,” he says as he reaches his hand out with a smile playing on his lips. “I’m David.”

John accepts his hand, but stays quiet. He recognizes the look David is giving him, like he is some sort of potential conquest.

John leans against the wall next to the shorter fellow and silently wonders why the hell he even came out here in the first place. He tries to think of some excuse to leave. He has half a mind to just slip away without saying a word, but that becomes impossible when David places his hand on the wall next to John’s head. He doesn’t crowd, but he makes his presence known.

John tries his best not to acknowledge him and focus on whatever the hell Adrien is talking about now, but he can’t ignore David for very long.

“Here,” David says, holding the joint out to John with his free hand.

“You’d share with a stranger?” John asks with a bite in his voice.

“I share with pretty strangers,” David says.

John looks up into David’s eyes and straightens his back in an unconscious effort to make himself feel a little bit larger. Usually he’d pass on the hit, but tonight he is feeling just jealous enough, just anxious enough, just angry enough that he decides to accept.

He picks the joint from David’s fingers and takes a long drag, trying not to cough as he holds the smoke in his lungs. He turns his head to the side to blow it out and tries to hand the joint back to David, but he pushes it back towards John’s mouth, urging him to take another drag. So John does. In fact, he takes two more for good measure before David finally accepts it back.

“You were very good tonight,” David says, “We saw your set.”

“I’m glad you liked it,” John replies. He fiddles with his necklace, pressing his thumb into the point of the arrow and using the sensation to ground himself.

David lifts his eyebrows and joins back in on the group conversation. John tries to pay attention, but everyone is so close and David’s hand is still right there and he is starting to get dazed and disoriented.

A minute has passed, or maybe more, when John feels David’s hand brush his hair aside and David’s lips move dangerously close to his ear.

“Would you like to go somewhere more private?” David says quietly.

John pulls away and looks at him. “You’re very forward.”

David just shrugs. “I don’t believe in wasting time.”

John studies him for a moment. He doesn’t do this. He doesn’t even like guys like David - all big and imposing, going for the smaller, quieter guys to try and maintain some sliver of their fragile masculinity. But the high is hitting him and the guy he actually likes will never like him back and fuck if he doesn’t want to feel desired and special and seen for even a few brief moments. So, against his better judgement, he accepts.

“Alright, go ahead first,” John says, “I’ll meet you in the gents.”

David nods, a glint of pride in his eye, and pushes off the wall to head back into the club.

John waits a few moments before breaking off the group to follow.

“It was lovely to meet you, Adrien,” John calls, though he is unsure if she even noticed that he left.

He makes his way back down the hallway and looks around before dipping into the bathroom. He is hit with the smell of piss and vomit and he briefly wonders how many other guys have gotten their rocks off in here.

Before he can fully gather his bearings, he is being pushed back into the large stall. David locks the stall and closes the gap between them. He pushes John up against the wall and the handicap bar presses hard against his lower back and John suddenly feels very, very small.

“You’re very pretty, you know,” David says before he roughly grabs John’s hips and dips his head down to suck hard on John’s neck.

John is frozen for a moment before he finds his voice again.

“Mate, ease up a little, yeah?” John says, tapping on David’s hands, but David just squeezes harder.

“Seriously, David, you’ll leave a bruise.”

When David still doesn’t ease up, John realizes that’s probably his intention. Panic flashes through him and John presses his hands to David’s chest and pushes back with strength he didn’t know he had. It’s enough force to take David by surprise and get him off.

“Jesus, man,” John says, catching his breath. “Don’t you listen?”

“What’s your problem, Johnny?” David spits out.

It makes John see red. The only people who ever used the nickname “Johnny” were the patronizing parents and teachers of his childhood who were “concerned” about his upbringing.

“That’s it, we’re done,” John says. “Get out.”

“You can’t be serious,” David says.

“Oh my _God_ , you’re pathetic!” John exclaims. He learned a long time ago that while he can’t tear people down with physical strength, his words are just as effective. He doesn’t do it often, but backed into a corner like this, he has no problem letting it out. “If you’re so desperate to feel like a man, you’ll have to find someone else to throw around ‘cause I’m not it, _Davey_.”

For a moment, John thinks he might actually get punched. But David does exactly what John predicted he’d do.

“Fuck this,” David says and throws open the door to the stall, tearing out of the bathroom.

John deflates against the wall and brings his hands to his face. He wills himself not to cry.

***

Roger leaves Lily at the booth to go take a piss. The second band of the night is in the middle of their set and the club is getting rowdier. He fights past people to get to the restrooms.

“Oi! Watch it.” says a large, imposing bloke as he shoulders past Roger.

“Piss off,” Roger mutters after he passes.

When he finally makes it into the bathroom, there’s someone at the sink splashing their face with water. It takes a moment for Roger to realize that someone is John. It takes another moment for him to realize that John’s hands are shaking like crazy.

“Deaky,” Roger says, causing John to practically jump out of his skin.

“Oh,” John says when he recovers. “Rog, it’s you.”

John turns to grab a paper towel but the dispenser is broken and nothing comes out. Roger starts when John slaps against the side of the dispenser in frustration before he scoffs and uses his shirt sleeve to dry his face.

“Mate, are you okay?” Roger asks, taking a step towards John.

“What? Of course, I’m fine.” John sweeps his hair out of his face but doesn’t meet Roger’s eye.

“Deaks…”

“I’m fine, Roger,” John assures as he takes side steps towards the door. “I just got overheated out there. I think I need some air, is all.”

“I can come with you,” Roger says. Something is wrong, that much is obvious, but he can’t puzzle out what.

“No!” John says a little suddenly before saying again, “No. You don’t need to.”

That’s when Roger sees it: a screaming red mark on the left side of John’s neck. He feels that same twist in his gut again - the one that feels very much like anger, but isn’t - before he tears his eyes away from the hickey.

Is this what John is all jumpy over? Pulling a bird? He doesn’t know why John wouldn’t just tell him that. But he decides not to press the issue.

“Alright, mate,” he says, “Well, I’m in the far booth if you need me.”

John simply nods before practically bolting out the door, leaving behind a very confused and slightly hurt Roger.

***

When John makes it out to the sidewalk in front of the club, he looks around for any sign of David. Seeing none, he leans against the wall and shakes out his hands. The panic brewing inside him only became worse when Roger caught him in the bathroom. 

Why the hell did he do something so stupid? What if Roger had walked in on him and David? What would he think? What would he say? And what if David hadn’t stopped when he told him to--

John ends his runaway train right there. David did stop. Roger did not walk in on them. Yeah, he acted like an idiot when Roger came in the bathroom, but he’ll find some excuse to explain it away. And in the future, he won’t make rash decisions when his straight friend acts like a normal straight guy and hooks up with a woman.

Once he finally calms down, he realizes he can hear someone crying. He looks to his left to find Freddie, of all people, curled up on a bench with his head in one hand and an empty drink in the other. The neon light in the window above him makes it look like he has a pink and purple aura around him.

John walks over and gently sits on the bench beside him. “Freddie?”

Freddie jumps at the sound, but when he sees it’s John, he quickly relaxes and wipes the tears from his face. The faraway look in his eyes tells John that he is firmly in “sad drunk” territory.

“Oh, hi, John,” Freddie says and goes to take a swig of his drink; he makes a face when he realizes it’s only ice.

“Freddie, what’s wrong?” John asks quietly, unsure of what to do. He didn’t even think it was possible for Freddie to look so sad and vulnerable.

“Oh, nothing, dear,” Freddie says, snapping back into his mask. “Just a bout of existentialism is all.”

“Existentialism?” John prods. “That’s a rather dramatic word for someone who’s crying on a bench in front of a club.”

“I’m a rather dramatic person, darling,” Freddie counters.

John doesn’t say anything. He’s not sure if he should. He doesn’t even know how to open up himself, let alone open up other people. But apparently, not saying anything is the right thing to do, because suddenly Freddie starts talking.

“It’s just-- I’m 24 years old and all I have to show for it is a shitty art degree, a shitty job at a shitty market, and shitty gigs in shitty little clubs.

I mean, is this it? Is this all I’ll ever do?” Freddie looks to John like he holds the answer. “Maybe I should have listened to my parents and became a doctor.”

“Freddie…” John says. He is severely out of his element. Freddie is so larger than life, so enigmatic, so _confident_ , that John can’t even comprehend that the crying, drunk mess in front of him is the same person. He tentatively continues, “You’re young. You have plenty of time to make it.”

“Jimi Hendrix was 23 when he had his first hit,” Freddie argues.

“Yes, but he also died at 27, so I don’t know if he’s the best example.”

“So, that means I only have a few years left before I follow him to the grave with nothing to show for my life!” Freddie exclaims, only half-joking.

“Freddie, you’re not going to die at 27.” John tries to be the voice of reason.

“How do you know?” Freddie asks, incredulous.

“Because I know!

I can see it now.” John says and swipes his hand in the air in front of them as if he’s setting the scene.

“You’ll have a long, illustrious career selling out stadiums and collecting platinums. People will fawn for you and stumble all over themselves for a crumb of your genius.

You’ll reach the highest heights, create every song inside your heart until eventually you grow to be a batty old man and you host salons like one of those old Hollywood divas where you’ll delight your guests with stories about your time as a rockstar.”

“Oh no, darling,” Freddie says, laughing as he wipes the mascara from under his eyes. “I won’t be a rockstar.”

“No?”

“No,” Freddie repeats. “I will be a legend.”

“There you are,” John says as he pulls Freddie into his chest. John laughs a little as Freddie plays with his necklace.

“What’s that, darling?” Freddie asks, breaking the hug.

“What’s what?” John looks at him, confused.

“Looks like someone marked you up.” Freddie points to John’s neck and lets out a giggle.

John’s stomach drops out of his ass and his hand flies up to cover the spot Freddie is pointing to. He can feel the heat rising in his cheeks as anger and shame rise along with it.

“Of course he did,” John mumbles before he can stop himself. He freezes, realizing what he just said.

“He?” Freddie asks. Even in his drunken state, leave it to Freddie to pick up on the things you’d rather he forget.

“She,” John corrects without missing a beat, as if Freddie simply misheard him.

The look in Freddie’s eyes tells John that he didn’t buy it. John holds his breath, unsure of what exactly he is waiting for. 

Freddie doesn’t pry any further. Instead, he says, “Be careful, love,” with enough sincerity that it makes John’s heart almost break in two. John doesn’t say anything and only prays that Freddie is too drunk to remember this in the morning.

“We need to get you home,” John says, changing the subject. He gets up and gathers Freddie, hooking his arm around Freddie’s waist and making sure he stays righted as they walk back in the club.

When they get back inside, John finds Roger at the booth he mentioned with the girl he had his tongue down earlier; luckily he does not have his tongue down her right now.

“Where’s Brian?” John asks, getting their attention.

“Oh.” The girl giggles. “He, uh…”

“He found a ride home,” Roger finishes for her.

“Right,” John says, “Well, I need to get Freddie home. I don’t know if he’ll be able to walk for much longer.”

“Jesus,” Roger says as he notices Freddie for the first time, slumped against John’s side. “Alright, yeah, let’s go.”

John raises his eyebrows, shocked at Roger’s willingness to leave his company for the night.

“You don’t have to worry, I was going to call a cab,” John says, “I just didn’t want to leave without telling you.”

“No, it’s probably time we go anyway,” Roger says. John can’t help but feel a bit smug when the girl’s face falls a little. “It’s getting a little rough in here.”

John busies himself with Freddie while Roger gives some cash to the girl so she can get herself a cab home. Once Roger slides out the booth, he hands John the keys to the van.

“You should probably drive, Deaks. I’ve had one too many.”

“You sure?” John asks. He’s fine to drive now, but he’s shocked that Roger trusts him with his beloved van.

“Of course,” Roger says as he grabs on to the other side of Freddie.

***

Once they manage to heave Freddie into his bed, John can’t help but feel a sense of deja vu.

“Now I just have to help you when you’re piss drunk and we’ll all be square,” John jokes to Roger as he wrestles off Freddies shoes.

“Deaky, you’ll never be in debt to me,” Roger says. The reply is so sincere and unexpected that it makes John pause for a moment.

He looks up and meets Roger’s eye and sees something in there he can’t place. John gives a little smile before he goes back to work on Freddie’s shoes.

Once they have Freddie situated, Roger leads them back to the kitchen to make them some sandwiches. He doesn’t know about John, but he is starving.

John sits at the dining table in the old wooden chair - the one with the wobbly leg - while Roger sniffs the questionable deli meat. He decides it's not expired enough to make them sick, so he gets to work.

With his back to John, he finally feels the courage to bring up the question that’s been playing in his mind since he saw John in the bathroom.

“So, did you pull that girl you were talking to?” Roger cringes slightly when the question comes out sounding more like an accusation.

“What girl?” John asks.

The deflection annoys Roger a bit. He bites back a snarky comment on the tip of his tongue and decides to play into John’s game. “That pretty redhead you were with.”

“Oh,” John says, but doesn’t speak any further.

This sets Roger off. Why would John hide a hookup from him? It’s nothing to be ashamed of, they’ve all done it. He puts the butter knife down and turns to face John, leaning back against the counter.

“Come on, mate, you don’t have to hide it from me,” Roger says, trying to keep his voice calm.

“The evidence is obvious enough,” he says, nodding at the hickey. Again, he doesn’t understand why the last bit came out so harsh, why he feels his chest tighten every time he looks at the mark on John’s neck.

John goes red and he unconsciously brings his hand back to his neck. He’s about to brush it all off again when he realizes that Roger just handed him the perfect excuse on a silver platter. He had been seen with that girl Adrien, and if by any chance Freddie wakes up tomorrow with an inkling of suspicion, he’ll have Roger to corroborate his story.

“Oh, yeah,” John says with a weak laugh. “We just snogged a bit in her car, that’s all.”

“I didn’t know you were the type,” Roger says. Luckily this time he manages to make the comment sound like a light ribbing rather than a scalding accusation.

“I’m not,” John whispers with a desperate look in his eye that it makes Roger feel like a Class A prick for pushing John into this corner.

Roger nods in response and goes back to work on the sandwiches. Once he finishes, he joins John at the table and the two eat in silence until Roger breaks it.

“Do you want to crash here tonight?” Roger asks, partly because he doesn’t feel like driving and partly because he doesn’t want John to go home just yet. “It’s pretty late.”

“That would be great.” John smiles down into his sandwich.

***

As he diligently scrubs his body, John pays extra attention to his neck, making sure to erase any invisible trace of David’s spit and DNA from the spot. He stands in the shower until it runs cold and lets the events of the night wash down the drain alongside the water and Roger’s shampoo.

It’s not until he finally steps out of the tub that he allows himself to look down at his hip. Sure enough, there is a large bruise blooming purple and yellow in the spot where David had grabbed him. He sighs and looks away, drying off the rest of his body and hair without looking down again.

He pulls on his boxers and the sleepshirt Roger let him borrow - a simple oversized gray t-shirt. Finally feeling clean and smelling a bit like Roger, he softly pads through the dark flat and gently knocks on Roger’s door before entering the dimly lit room.

Roger’s bedside lamp has a pink scarf draped over it, giving the whole room a warm, hazy feel. There are about three separate piles of clothes on the floor with a forth taking over the armchair that sits under the window. The window is open, letting in the summer breeze.

Roger is already in his double bed reading a comic book with the end of a cigarette between his lips. After his first night on the couch, John began sharing Roger’s bed on the nights he stayed at their flat. At first John thought it might be awkward or strange, but he’s found that even with his little (okay, maybe it’s grown into something more than “little”) crush, it never felt like either of those things.

Tonight, though, John can tell that something is off. Something’s been off the entire evening, since their set, really. If John wasn’t so tired - mentally and physically - he might ask Roger what’s wrong. But as it stands, he can’t be bothered.

“God, I’m exhausted,” John says as he climbs into the bed and settles down.

“Well, it is almost four in the morning,” Roger replies.

Roger snuffs out his cigarette in the ashtray on his bedside table and turns off the lamp before lying down on his back. With the moonlight filtering through the open window, John can see Roger with one arm above his head and the other resting across his stomach. John turns on his side, facing away from Roger.

He wasn’t going to say anything, but now, under the cover of darkness with his back to his friend, the question that’s been tugging at him spills out.

“Why didn’t you go home with that girl?” John asks.

“What do you mean?” Roger’s voice is thick with sleep.

“I saw you two on the dance floor.” John chuckles. “It looked like she liked you well enough. You could have pulled her, easy.”

“I dunno,” Roger says through a yawn. “Just didn’t want to, I guess.”

The non-answer bugs John, but he decides not to press it. Even though sleep wants to overtake him, it’s being held at bay by the horrific tension around them. It’s like all of the negative energy from the night got condensed down into Roger’s small room. The air crackles with it and zaps at John to keep him awake.

Finally, John says what they’re both thinking. “Tonight was weird.”

Roger laughs in the dark beside him and John can feel some of the energy slip away; not much, but enough that the room doesn’t feel so heavy anymore.

“Yeah, Deaks, it really was,” Roger says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter! It's definitely a little heavier, but we are on a journey full of ups and downs


	6. Don't Blame the Wine

Roger leans against the wall with the phone to his ear and stares at the broken record player before him. He taps his foot impatiently until there is a loud clatter as the phone is picked up on the other end.

“Hello?”

“Deaky!” Roger perks up when he hears John’s voice through the phone. “Listen, I need you to come over.”

“Right now?” John asks.

“Yes,” Roger says after a moment. While he’d usually have a snarky remark at the ready over such an inane question, he’s still in a bit of shock, and nothing comes to him.

“Is something wrong?”

The record player looks up at Roger, pitiful in its injured state. The fall was enough that it even left a dent in the wood floor.

“I broke the record player.”

There is a moment of silence before John starts laughing. “You what?”

“Deacon, stop!” Roger exclaims. He’d be more embarrassed with how whiny he sounds if he weren’t in such deep shit. “If Freddie comes home and sees this, I swear he’ll kill me.”

“Alright, I’m sorry,” John says, though Roger can hear no remorse in his voice. “How did you manage to break it?”

“Right. Well, you see…” Roger hesitates for a moment before beginning the frankly embarrassing story.

“I was out on the fire escape having a smoke and when I came back inside, my foot got caught on the windowsill which made me pitch forward and hit the bookcase and stop laughing!” Roger finishes in a huff when he hears John’s laughter through the phone.

“Sorry!” John says through a fit of giggles. “I’m sorry, truly.”

Roger forces his mouth back into a frown; he should be more annoyed than he is right now.

“I can come over and take a look,” John continues, “But I can’t promise anything.”

Relief floods Roger’s body. “You’re a lifesaver, Deaks.”

“Yes, I know,” John says.

“Don’t get cocky,” Roger playfully warns.

***

John makes his way up the marble staircase, toolbag in hand, to Roger and Freddie’s flat. It has been two weeks since that night at the club, and it looks like he’s finally in the clear.

Although he and Roger had made a silent agreement not to talk about it anymore - or rather, Roger got up the next morning and pretended like nothing had happened - John still couldn’t help but spend days overanalyzing every possible outcome from that night.

_What if Freddie says something to Roger about his suspicions? Does he even remember anything from that night? What if Roger gets his own suspicions? What if he stumbles across David again and he outs him to all his friends as some sort of revenge? That means he’d be outing himself too, but what if he doesn’t care? What if, what if, what if._

Fortunately for John, none of his doomsday scenarios have come to pass. Unfortunately for John, he was not blessed with a brain that allows him to let things go; so even after the mark on his neck disappeared and the bruise on his hip faded away and all the others seem to have forgotten the night entirely, he’s still locked in a prison of what if’s.

As John makes it up the third and final flight, he takes a deep breath and reminds himself that it’s all in his head.

***

Roger throws the door open as soon as he hears the first few knocks and comes face-to-face with a slightly-startled John, his fist still raised.

“That bad, is it?” John asks with an amused look on his face once he recovers.

Roger steps aside to let John in the flat and gestures to the coffee table where the mangled machine now lies.

John raises his eyebrows and strides to the table. He kneels on the floor in front of the record player. He looks just like he did the very first night he was over at the flat for dinner, but now he seems decidedly more comfortable, like he’s a familiar fixture of the space rather than a withdrawn newcomer.

Roger sits on the couch opposite John and leans his elbows on his splayed knees, hands clasped together as he lets John look over the player.

“You’re lucky you didn’t snap the arm,” John says as he runs his fingertips over the dents in the metal siding and the cracked plastic cover.

“So, you can fix it?” Roger asks hopefully.

“I think so,” John says, pulling a small screwdriver out of his bag. “I can’t do anything about the dings or the cover, but it shouldn’t be too hard to fix anything that jostled loose on the inside.”

“Deaks, I think you might be a literal angel,” Roger blurts out.

“I’ll remember you said that next time you’re being a dick.” John retorts, but Roger doesn’t miss the blush rising in John’s cheeks.

“Me?” Roger asks in mock-innocence. “Never.”

John doesn’t reply; he only flicks his eyes up at Roger with a knowing smile before he lifts the top plate off the record player and inspects its innards. He goes quiet once his concentration is completely on the record player and Roger knows not to interrupt his focus.

He moves to join John on the floor and leans his back against the couch. He grabs a spring that popped out of John’s toolbag and starts to play with it. For a second it looks like John is about to snatch it back, but he doesn’t, so Roger continues to mess with it, pressing it down between his fingers and watching as it springs back up.

After a while, he gets bored with the little spring and is about to go find something else to entertain him when he catches sight of what John is doing. He tries to look away - in fact, his brain is screaming at him to look away - but his eyes refuse to listen.

John’s fingers move so gently over the small pieces, taping wires and connecting parts with the dexterity of a surgeon. It’s mesmerizing. Roger wonders if projects like this is what made John into such a skilled bass player, or if it’s the other way around, or maybe neither begot the other and John was just brought into this world with hands that knew how to work with such precision.

John can feel Roger’s eyes on him and he shifts uncomfortably on his knees. “This is going to take a while if you have other things to do.”

When Roger doesn’t answer him, he looks up from the bit of wire he’s been coiling to see Roger staring at the wire as well with a strange look on his face.

“Rog,” John says, a little louder. Roger starts and looks up at John with a curiously guilty expression before it is wiped away and replaced with a smile.

“Sorry,” Roger says, “Got a bit zoned out.”

“I just said this is going to take a while if you have other things you need to get done.”

“Oh, no, I’m fine here,” says Roger.

“You just want to watch me fix this?” John teases, “I didn’t realize I was putting on a show.”

And there it is again: Roger looks like a kid caught doing something they’re not supposed to, but with a shake of his blonde hair, it disappears.

“I’m just curious,” Roger says, leaning up on the coffee table. “It may not be the inside of a car, but it’s still interesting.”

Roger picks up a little plastic piece John had pulled out earlier and pretends to examine it; he knows if he looks at John right now, his cheeks will turn an awful shade of red.

“Really?” John asks, his voice turning gentler, “I… I can explain it to you, if you like.”

Roger finally looks up at John. He was only trying to find an excuse to explain away why he was staring at his friend’s hands like a lunatic, but as soon as he sees that hopeful and shy look in John’s eyes, he’s powerless to deny him anything.

“I’d love that,” Roger says and ignores the skip in his heart when John tucks his hair behind his ear and smiles down into the record player.

***

“You’re a good student,” John says as he lets Roger replace the final knob on the top of the player.

“You should go tell that to my old teachers,” Roger says and playfully nudges John’s shoulder with his own.

At some point in the last hour, Roger had moved to John’s side of the table as John explained everything he was doing to the machine. John could tell most of it went over Roger’s head, but he seemed happy to listen and eventually managed to convince John to let him help. After a few near-disasters (thanks to Roger), it looks like they may finally be done.

“I think it’s ready for a test,” John says as he gently runs his hands over the body of the record player.

“Perfect.” Roger lifts the heavy object and carefully brings it back to the bookcase as John begins to clean off the coffee table of his tools.

“You good to stay for a while?” Roger asks as he plugs the cord into the outlet.

“I’ve got no plans.” John says. 

“Then I’ll let you have the honor of picking the inaugural record,” Roger says as he heads to the kitchen and opens the refrigerator.

“Can’t believe you’d trust me with the music selection,” John quips.

“Well, there’s no funk in this house so I feel safe letting you on the loose,” Roger says over his shoulder.

“Shame.” John chuckles as he makes his way to the milk crate. He takes out a stack of records from the overstuffed crate and begins flipping through them.

“You’ve got a lot of oldies in here,” John says, pulling out an old Miles Davis album from the 1950s.

“Those are Fred’s,” Roger replies.

“Good taste,” John says before he slips the album back into the stack.

John is considering a Zeppelin album when a gasp interrupts him from his deliberation. He turns around to see Roger precariously kneeling on the countertop with his arm deep inside the top shelf of the upper cabinet. After a second, he produces his prize and turns to John smiling like the cheshire cat with one hand holding onto the cabinet and the other holding onto a bottle of wine.

“Look what mummy’s been hiding,” Roger says, waving the bottle for emphasis.

“We can’t,” says John.

“Oh, yes we can.” Roger’s eyes twinkle with mischief as he climbs off the counter and begins opening and closing the drawers in search of something.

“Roger.” John tries to be reasonable.

“John.” Roger meets his gaze with a raised eyebrow and a smile playing on his lips.

John puts up a good fight, holding Roger’s stare, but eventually he is the first one to break.

“Fine,” he says, turning back to the records. “But I won’t take the heat when Freddie finds out.”

“He won’t find out,” Roger says, triumphant both because he won and because he finally found the corkscrew in a drawer full of old ketchup and soy sauce packets. 

From where he’s standing, he can see John’s shoulders shake in a small laugh. They both know Freddie will definitely figure it out sooner or later, but Roger can’t bring himself to care.

“You say that, but…”

“But the old sot has skimmed enough weed off me that he owes me at least ten bottles of shit wine,” Roger counters as he pries the cork out of the bottle.

All of their glasses are dirty, so he fishes two coffee mugs out of the cabinet and pours their drinks. The yellow color of the mugs do no favors for the wine, but Roger has drunk from worse.

“Wow,” he hears John say softly.

“What?”

Roger leans over the counter to see what John has found. John puts down the stack of records and turns towards Roger, holding up a copy of _In the Wee Small Hours._

“My mum used to play this all the time when I was a kid,” John explains, “I haven’t heard it in ages.”

“Well, put it on, then,” Roger says as he makes his way to the bookcase with their mugs.

“You want to listen to Sinatra?” John asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Sinatra and wine, can’t think of a better combination.” He can, but John’s smile makes it worth it.

“Okay, Grandpa,” John teases, giggling when Roger gently kicks him in the calf in retaliation.

Roger watches as John carefully slips the record out of its sleeve and places it on the platter. He presses play and by the grace of God (or really, the grace of John’s genius), the record begins to spin. John carefully lifts the needle and places it down on the record and the player, so close to death not a few hours ago, crackles to life. 

A slow, melodic piano plays before Frank Sinatra’s warm voice fills the room. Something small flickers across John’s features - something bittersweet, maybe nostalgia - before he turns to Roger with a smile that shows off the gap in his front teeth.

“All better,” he says.

Roger hands him a mug and raises his own. “Cheers.”

Roger brings the mug to his lips and chokes down the wine; it’s bitter as it makes its way down his throat. John mirrors him and pulls a face after his first sip.

“Jesus,” John says, his voice slightly hoarse.

“I’ll tell Freddie to provide us with something better next time,” Roger says as he makes his way to the couch. He smiles behind the mug as John laughs in response when he settles down on the couch next to Roger, pulling his legs up underneath himself.

***

Here’s the thing about wine: even the cheap shit makes for a much more lucious haze than any other sort of alcohol. Maybe that’s why Roger doesn’t question it when John’s laugh starts to sound sweeter after the first cup, when he can feel the impression of a hand on his knee long after it’s been removed after the second cup, and when he has the inexplicable desire to run his fingers through John’s hair after the third.

“How’s your job going?” Roger asks suddenly, interrupting whatever John was on about and his own strange train of thought. He hasn’t seen much of John in the past couple of weeks because of his summer job and it’s honestly been a bit of a drag. Maybe it’s a good thing his record player broke.

“It’s impossibly boring.” One large mug of wine and John is already looking rather flushed. “I’m sat up in an ice-box of a room all day doing the filing for the engineering department with a secretary who I think might actually be allergic to silence.”

“Oh, a secretary.” Roger wiggles his eyebrows. “Is she hot?”

“She’s a grandma,” John deadpans, “But, yeah, she’s a looker.”

Roger snorts in shock and the wine burns his nose as he makes a valiant effort not to spit it out. In the end, he is unsuccessful and spits the wine back into his mug with a bit dribbling down his chin as he laughs.

“That’s disgusting!” John exclaims.

“Don’t talk about shagging grandmas, then!” Roger says through fits of laughter.

“I said nothing of shagging grandmas.” John playfully nudges Roger’s shoulder. “That’s your own dirty mind.

“Anyway,” John continues after Roger calms down. “It lets me stay in London over the summer and I get to keep my room, so really, I can’t complain.”

Roger looks at John as he speaks and feels the need to do… something, but in his alcohol-addled mind, he can’t figure out what. He needs to release whatever’s bubbling inside his chest somehow, so he opts to move John’s hair aside and place his hand on his shoulder. He leans in slightly and tries to translate his thoughts as best he can.

“I’m glad you’re staying,” he finally says.

John can feel his cheeks burning, both at the sincerity of Roger’s words and because of the fact that Roger’s face is now dangerously close to his. Roger furrows his brow before he brings his mug between them and tips it at his lips, draining the wine he previously spit out.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” John says with a small laugh, trying to snap out of whatever is happening.

Roger shrugs in response and flashes a lazy grin. Even though his eyes look glossy, John can see something whirring behind them and he can’t break his gaze away. He’s frozen to the spot, as if Roger’s hand has shackled him down, and he wonders if Roger can feel his pulse quickening beneath it.

Whether they are there for seconds or hours, John can’t say, but soon the crackle of a spent record fills the air. Whatever was behind Roger’s eyes disappears and he finally takes his hand off of John's shoulder and leans back, breaking the spell.

“My turn to pick,” Roger says.

He slams his empty mug onto the coffee table and rises unsteadily, laughing when John reaches out to steady him as he stumbles over his own feet.

He plonks himself on the floor in front of the milk crate and starts sifting through the records. He finally settles on _Abbey Road_.

He looks up at the record player; it’s so impossibly far away on top of the bookcase and the idea of getting up again is greatly unappealing. He tries to motivate himself to stand, exerting great mental energy at the idea, but he eventually gives in to gravity and falls back, splaying himself out in front of the bookcase.

“John?” he asks as he stares up at the water spot on his ceiling that has definitely grown larger since the last time he looked.

“Rog, what are you doing?” he hears John ask.

“Can you put this on?” Roger waves the record weakly in his hand. “I can’t get up.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Please,” Roger whines and turns his head towards John, giving him what he thinks is his best puppy-dog face.

“Are you a child?” John laughs, causing Roger to scoff and turn his head back to the ceiling.

“No, I’m just really drunk.” Roger lets his own set of giggles wash over him and he brings his empty hand to his face.

That’s the thing about wine: it makes the whole world feel like a funny little game.

He feels the record being pulled from his hand and when he opens his eyes again, John is standing over him, his platforms making him look ten feet tall.

“Are you going to move out the way?” John asks with an expectant look on his face.

“No,” Roger says. He erupts into laughter again when John rolls his eyes in exasperation.

He can see John look between the bookcase and Roger, trying to figure out how to reach over to the record player. Finally, John shakes his head and mutters, “You’re impossible,” before he steps one long leg over Roger’s torso and balances precariously over his body to switch out the records.

Roger can hear the pops of the old record cut off as John lifts the needle, though he doesn’t pay much attention. His fuzzy eyes travel over the flare of John’s jeans to where they taper at the knee, but before he can get any further, the sound of smooth drums snaps him out of it and he brings his eyes back to the dark water spot.

He senses John shift his weight and take a step back from Roger.

“You going to get up now?” John asks.

Roger looks back at him and hums, pretending to consider.

“I don’t think so. I’m very comfortable,” he says, laughing when he gets another eye roll from John.

“You could join me,” Roger says, patting the space next to him. At this point he’s just curious to see how much he can get John to go along with.

“No,” John says as if the idea is ridiculous.

“Yes,” Roger counters, tugging at the hem of John’s jeans.

He feels wickedly proud when after a moment, John actually indulges him and lies on the ground next to him.

“Now what?” John asks after a moment.

“I dunno,” Roger replies, smiling when his response causes John to burst out in the kind of laughter that crinkles the corners of his eyes.

He shifts his gaze back to the ceiling and hums along with John Lenon. The room is just a little bit dizzy and the water spot is hard to focus on. He can’t pinpoint the exact moment he was sent adrift on the pleasant waves of intoxication, but he certainly feels it now. 

At some point, he turns his head to the side and studies his friend. John has one knee propped up with the other leg straight in front of him. He lazily taps his fingers on his stomach to the music. His eyes are closed and his eyelashes dust his cheeks and Roger can’t recall if he ever noticed how long they are. His lips are slightly pursed and he breathes gently through his nose. He almost looks like he could be asleep if not for those hands keeping perfect time.

“You’re staring,” John says without opening his eyes.

“No, I’m not,” Roger says, though he can’t take his eyes off of John’s face, even when John finally opens his eyes and turns his head to face Roger.

“Yes, you are,” John whispers and Roger can smell the alcohol on John’s breath.

Roger can’t help it. He looks down at John’s lips and a small thought runs through his head; so quiet, so fleeting, and yet so noticeable.

_I wonder how soft they are._

Roger doesn’t have to wonder long. Before the thought even has a chance to leave his mind, John’s hand is on his cheek and John’s lips cover his own and his question is answered: they’re very soft. He takes in a hitched breath through his nose as his brain tries to catch up with what is happening.

Every bit of logic tells him this is wrong, screams at him to pull away, jump up, kick John out, but a tiny voice in the back of his head tells him to lean into it, and in his drunken haze, that’s the voice he wants to listen to.

That’s the thing about wine: it pulls you down into an opulent den where bad ideas look good.

But, before he can do anything, John pulls away. When Roger opens his eyes, he’s met with John’s own, wide with shock.

“I’m so sorry,” John blurts out, “I’m-- I’m very drunk.”

John must realize his hand is still on Roger’s cheek because he pulls it away and flexes it a few times like he is unsure of what to do. Roger brings his hand up to his cheek, already missing the warmth.

Roger wants to say something, but he can’t find the words. John must take the silence as anger because he quickly scrambles to his feet, red in the face. Roger sits up as John rambles on.

“I should probably go,” John says, already making his way to the door. “Yeah. Yeah, I have to go.”

Before Roger can get a word in, John is fumbling with the lock. “I have work in the morning anyway. I’m-- I’m so sorry.”

And with that, John exits the flat, slamming the door behind him in his haste. Roger remains on the floor with his hand still on his cheek. In the wake of John’s flight, the only sounds around him are his own heart pounding and the record player dutifully spinning out cheerful pop music.

His hand moves, almost of its own accord, to his lips that still tingle like champagne bubbles on New Year’s Eve. He stares ahead at the scuffed legs of the rickety old dining table across the way while that same tiny voice in the back of his head taunts him.

_You liked it, didn’t you?_

That’s the thing about wine: if you’re not careful, it’ll reveal the things you wanted to stay hidden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh shit! This chapter took me a while to write because, uhhhhh, yeah lol. I hope you liked it! Let me know what you think!


	7. It Was Just a Fluke

John sits curled up into his seat at the back of the bus. His arms are wrapped tight around his legs and he looks out the window, though he doesn’t take in any of the city passing by. He bites down hard on his bottom lip, as if he’s punishing himself for his stupidity, replacing the memory of Roger with the pain of his own teeth.

Tears threaten to push out of his eyes and he fights them back as the events of the evening relentlessly play over and over in his head.

He spent the past two weeks obsessing over whether Freddie might figure him out, or if Roger might get suspicious, or even if goddamn David would be the cause for his demise. But of course, it wasn’t any of them, it would never have been any of them. John has been found out and it’s his own damn fault.

What could have possibly possessed him to do that? Things were going so well, so damn well, and he ruined it. He finally found a group of friends and a place where he might belong, and now it’s going to come crashing down. All because he can’t control his fucking impulses.

The bus pulls up to a stop and John’s eyes settle on the couple waiting on the bench. They make a lovely pair. The man pulls the woman close to him by her waist as they walk onto the bus. John tracks them as they climb on and settle into a seat only a few rows ahead of him. He can see the woman rest her head on her lover’s shoulder as he strokes his hand through her shiny blonde hair. They so easily put their love on display for the world to see through those tiny actions.

They take it for granted. It’s everything John could want but will never have.

And almost as if it’s punched out of him, a laugh escapes John’s mouth, bubbling in his chest and bursting forth before he has a chance to stop it. John puts his hand to his mouth, but it happens again. He tries to hold it in, but it slips through his fingers and spills out around him like vomit. He denied his body tears, so now it’s protesting with laughter.

He plants his feet on the floor and doubles over, laughing harder and harder until the tears break free and stream down his face.

He must look insane, laughing by himself in the back of the bus. Surely someone is going to come up to him, put him in a straitjacket and throw him in a padded room where he will continue to laugh for eternity until his head splits open from the effort, the wine, and his own bad choices.

The thought sends him into another round of laughter until his sides are in stitches. He gasps for air and eventually his body finally gets its way and the laughs turn into sobs. He keeps his hands over his mouth as his vision blurs and the wetness from his eyes drop onto the dusty floor below him.

He doesn’t dare get up from his position, even once the sobs turn into quiet, hiccupping breaths. 

They get to his stop and no one comes to cart him away to the nearest sanatorium. He finally gets up and walks off the bus with his gaze on the floor; his skin prickles with the judgemental and worried stares of the strangers he disturbed on the ride. He doesn’t lift his eyes once on his way back to the residence hall. At least with most people gone for the summer, there is no one around to witness his pathetic walk of shame.

He shuts the door to his quiet, cold little room and slides down to the floor. Exhaustion seeps into every bone and he’s not sure if he’ll be able to get up again tonight. At least he’s too tired to properly think about anything.

***

Not John. Not his best mate. Not a man.

Roger takes a long drag from his joint and holds it in his lungs. It’s a risky game he’s playing, getting cross-faded, but he needs something stronger than a cigarette to calm him down right now.

The warm summer air tickles his arms and the street lamp flickers on in front of him. The metal bars of the fire escape dig into his arse, making it a bit numb; he’s been sitting in the same position for what feels like hours. With John gone and the record put away, the flat inside is quiet, giving his mind a playground to run in circles on.

He can’t even bring himself to be angry. Why can’t he be angry?

_It’s because you liked it._

No, it's not. He didn’t.

Roger takes another drag off his joint and holds the smoke in longer this time. When he exhales, he feels the cloudy daze roll over him, promising to take his mind away to lighter things. He leans back and closes his eyes, only to see John’s, wide and terrified. He longs to make it better somehow.

Fuck.

He takes another drag. He holds it in his lungs. He exhales. The cloud comes back, but this time it brings the feeling of John’s lips on his own, his hand on his cheek.

“Fuck!” Roger huffs out a laugh - a bitter, derogatory thing aimed only at himself.

He takes another drag and leans his head against the wall, looking up at the way the smoke billows in the evening sky as he exhales it from his lungs. The cloud doesn’t come back. This time, it’s anxiety and paranoia that make an appearance.

He knew the game he was playing, and it looks like he lost.

He snuffs out the joint on the wall and slips it back into his pocket. He leans over, putting his elbows on his crossed knees and presses the heels of his hands hard into his eyes until stars appear behind his eyelids.

He was just drunk. He was just drunk. He was just drunk.

He rocks back and forth as he repeats the mantra over and over, trying to banish John from his mind. Banish the way his heart skipped a beat when John laid on the floor next to him, banish the way he feels a swell of pride whenever he makes John laugh, banish the way his stomach tightens whenever he thinks about that gig, that girl, that hickey.

That hickey.

His stomach tightens again in the way that feels like anger, but isn’t; isn’t anger because it’s--

Hot saliva fills Roger’s mouth and he claps his hand against it as the sting of vomit comes up his throat. He forces himself to swallow it back down, wincing at the bitter aftertaste on his tongue.

He scrubs his hands over his face and tries to take a few deep breaths, but it does no good. He’s about to reach for the joint again, because, fuck, he needs _something_ , when the sound of the front door slamming stops him in his tracks.

“Roger, why was the door unlocked?” he hears Freddie’s unmistakable voice call through the flat.

Roger tightens his hands into fists before shaking his head out.

“Must have forgot!” Roger calls out in the most normal voice he can muster. “Mindless sometimes, you know.”

“You’re going to get us robbed one day,” Freddie says as Roger starts to climb back through the window.

By the time Roger rights himself, Freddie is already standing at the coffee table holding the empty bottle of wine with his finger hooked around the handles of the two mugs.

“What’s this?” he asks with a stern expression. Roger freezes.

“Your wine,” Roger says curtly before going to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

“And why is it all drunk?”

Roger rolls his eyes and feels a hot flash shoot down his spine. Anger. Simple, familiar, blessed anger. He holds onto it and flicks his eyes up at Freddie.

“Because I drank it,” Roger challenges, itching for a fight - something to keep the flame alive, keep the distraction going, but Freddie doesn’t give it to him.

“Was John here?” Freddie asks as he makes his way to the counter dividing them. Roger almost chokes on his water and sputters a bit as he tries to clear his windpipe.

“No,” Roger says quickly, wiping his mouth.

“You sure?” Freddie asks. He sets down the mugs slowly so the two clinks of ceramic on countertop ring out distinctly before pointedly looking at John’s toolbag still resting against the leg of the coffee table.

“What’s with the third degree?” Roger snaps, desperate to find that fire again. “Yes, I’m bloody sure.”

“If you’re trying to protect him because you think I’ll be angry at him for stealing my wine, don’t worry, I’m only mad at you.”

Just the mere suggestion that Roger might be trying to protect John, like he’s some damsel who needs Roger’s saving is enough to send him into a tailspin. He slams his cup down on the counter and laughs bitterly to hide the panic swelling inside of him.

“Oh my fucking God, Fred, he wasn’t here,” Roger says, storming around the counter towards his bedroom. “I drank your shitty wine and John left his toolbag in the van the other day and I had brought it up to fix something.”

It’s a shit excuse, but the only one Roger can bring to mind.

“What did you fix?” Freddie asks so incredulously that it makes Roger want to pull his hair out.

“ _Does it fucking matter?_ ” Roger yells and slams his bedroom door.

He thought his room might be a safe haven, a place to get away from Freddie’s critical eye, but it’s worse than the common room. It’s small and suffocating and Roger paces back and forth from one end to the other like a caged lion in a zoo; nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, always aware of the audience right on the other side of his wall, watching him, judging him.

Freddie can’t know. That’s impossible. It is impossible, right? Yes. Yes, it has to be.

Sweat prickles on the back of Roger’s neck and his room feels like a furnace. The walls get tighter and tighter until he is sure he has nowhere to turn anymore. He sits on the end of his bed and tries to quiet his brain, but it proves to be a mistake.

As soon as he drops his forehead into his hand, he is barragged with images of the evening.

The record player. The wine. Sinatra. The Beatles. John’s platforms. John’s legs. John’s hands, lips, his big hazel eyes.

John.

Roger shoots back up from the bed. He needs to get out. He stumbles to put on his shoes and grabs his wallet and keys and stuffs them in his pockets. He hesitates for just a moment at his door.

He takes a deep breath and throws it open and stalks to the front door, heavily aware of Freddie’s eyes on his back.

“And where are you going?” Freddie’s voice is like venom and Roger feels the fire of rage course through his whole body.

In the back of his mind, he silently thanks Freddie for gifting him the one emotion he can actually handle right now.

“If you must know the particulars of my evening, Freddie,” Roger says, turning to face him. “I’m going to go to the pub at the end of the street and find myself a nice, pretty bird and then I’m going to bring her home and fuck her into the matress. Do you want any more details than that, or are you good?”

“Real classy, Rog.”

Roger throws his middle finger up in response and opens the front door. He slams it behind him, not bothering to lock it. He practically sprints down the staircase and out the door onto the street as if his sinful thoughts are snapping at his heels, ready to drag him down into the dust.

***

Three days. Three days and no phone call, no angry knock on his door, no demands he leave the band.

That’s a good sign, right?

Unless, they’re waiting for practice today to kick him out in person. The thought alone is enough to bring on another nervous fit, so John shoves it back into the dark box from whence it came and grabs his bass before heading out the door.

The walk to the arts building seems to stretch on for miles. His bass is heavy in his hand, his own personal ball and chain to remind him of who he is about to face. He forces his feet to move forward even though every instinct tells him to run.

By the time he enters the building, he’s fantasizing about all the places where he can start his new life. Paris seems nice, but he doesn’t know any French. He could go to New York City, he could blend in pretty easily there. Or maybe New Orleans; he could pick up the double bass and join a jazz band.

He’s already got his new name picked out - Theodore - when he realizes he’s at the door of the rehearsal room.

He reaches his hand out to turn the knob before pulling it away again. He could leave now. He could leave right now and they would be none the wiser. They can’t laugh at him, call him a disgusting pervert, a queer, a pansy, a fairy, if he just doesn’t open the door.

He is stuck in this limbo until the decision is made for him and the door is thrown open. Before he can register what’s happening, Brian stumbles into John and grabs onto his shoulders to keep him from falling back.

“Sorry about that, Deaks,” Brian says.

“It was my fault, sorry,” John mumbles.

Brian drops one hand off of John’s shoulder, but he can feel the other remain and give a light squeeze, prompting John to look up at Brian’s concerned eyes.

“You alright there, mate?”

“Yeah.” John laughs weakly. “Yeah, of course. Just a little under the weather.”

“Alright,” Brian says, moving out of John’s space. “Well, I’m going to take a piss, but we’re starting soon so you should get set up.”

John nods and feels the knot loosen in his chest a bit. Clearly they’re not going to kick him out. The relief is short-lived, though, because as soon as he hears Freddie and Roger bickering inside the rehearsal room, the knot comes back.

He can’t stall any longer, so he drops his gaze to the floor and enters the rehearsal room.

John doesn’t say a single word as he comes into the room and makes a beeline to the amp Roger already set up for him. Roger watches from behind his kit as he works quickly and quietly to set up his bass, as if he’s trying to become invisible. Freddie must notice that Roger has dropped out of their argument because he stops in the middle of whatever point he’s trying to make and turns to follow Roger’s gaze.

“Oh, hello there, darling!” Freddie says, chipper as ever, but Roger sees the way John’s back tightens once he’s spoken to.

Freddie notices it too by the way he turns back to Roger with a questioning look as John meekly says, “Hi, Freddie.”

Roger doesn’t know what to do, so he just shrugs and lets Freddie handle it.

“Are you alright, love?” Freddie asks, making his way towards John.

Roger can’t stop the pained feeling in his heart when John jumps as Freddie puts his hand on his back and turns to Freddie looking white as a sheet.

“Just feeling a bit ill today, is all,” John says and Roger has to bite back a scoff.

 _Roger_ is the one who should get to act all jumpy and weird. John is the one who kissed _him_. And yet here he is having the audacity to walk in acting like a wounded animal.

And the worst part is that Roger can’t even be mad. He can’t be mad because it just hurts.

After finally calming down that night, he went home, hungover and alone, and crashed into bed. When he woke up the next morning, the evening’s events were fuzzy enough that he felt safe shackling its memory to a dark corner of his mind where its calls for attention could barely reach him.

He went on like everything was normal, knowing that if he pretended long enough, it would make it so. He figured John would do the same, and they’d go back to the way things used to be, but it’s clear that isn’t going to happen.

And it fucking hurts.

It hurts that John doesn’t say a single word to him throughout the entire rehearsal. It hurts that John won’t even look at him when they’re running through their songs. It hurts that John looks like he’s _scared_ of Roger. All over a stupid, drunken, two-second mistake.

Once they’re finally done with practice, John quickly packs up and scurries out, clearly taking advantage of the fact that Roger has to break down his kit and won’t possibly be able to catch up to him. He does so in silence, blowing off Freddie and Brian’s questions about what could be wrong with John.

By the time they make it down to the van, Roger is resigned to the fact that John might avoid him for quite some time. He unlocks the back door and throws it open. He is about to start hauling his drum kit into the van when he sees John’s toolbag nestled up against the back seat. Freddie must have put it there at some point.

He crawls into the back of the van and grabs it before shuffling back out.

“You two finish packing the van,” Roger says, “I have to get this back to John.”

“Are you serious?” asks Brian.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Roger ignores Freddie’s gaze at the side of his head.

“Because it’s a bloody toolkit, he can get it the next time you see him,” Brian says as if it’s obvious.

“You know how John is with this kind of stuff. He’ll go mad without it.” The excuse is weak, but Roger doesn’t care. He needs to see John and settle this once and for all.

“He’s across campus, we’ll be waiting here for ages.”

“Then take the bus if you’re so keen to get home, but it’s my van, so I guess you’ll just have to be patient if you want a ride from me,” Roger says, backing away and jiggling his keys.

Brian scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Ridiculous.”

With that, Roger turns around and heads across campus.

By the time he exits the elevator on John’s floor of the residence hall, his breathing is shallow and he has to remind himself to take a deep breath. He stops in front of John’s door and shakes out his hand a few times before closing it into a fist and rapping it against the golden wood.

“Deaky, it’s me.” Roger does his best to keep his voice even.

He hears someone shuffle on the inside, but no one comes to the door. After a minute he rolls his eyes and knocks again.

“Come on, Deaks, open the door,” Roger says, “I know you’re in there.”

A moment goes by, and the lock finally clicks and John opens the door. He stands there, one arm disappearing behind the door like he’s trying to hide behind it. A blush blooms in his cheeks and he won’t look Roger in the eye.

“What is it?” John asks, eyes cast downwards.

“You forgot your toolbag,” Roger says, holding it out for John.

“Oh. Right, thanks.”

John grabs the bag from Roger and he doesn’t miss how John carefully avoids touching Roger’s hand in the process. Roger deflates a little; they can’t go on like this.

He decides to buck up and clear the air, but John beats him to it.

“Listen.” John’s voice is unsure, like he’s waiting for something dreadful. “I need to apologize about the other night. I was drunk and wasn’t thinking clearly. It didn’t mean anything, I promise.”

John’s words feel like a punch to the gut and Roger refuses to think about why.

“You know how I get when I drink. I can’t be trusted,” John says with a weak laugh and finally looks up at Roger. His eyes are blank and Roger can tell he’s making an effort to cover up whatever is going on underneath.

Roger can’t stand it. John gets like this with strangers and crowds, not with him.

“John--”

“And I understand if… if I made you uncomfortable or if you need me to take a step back,” John starts rambling like he needs to fill the empty space between them.

Roger tentatively reaches out his hand and puts it on John’s shoulder. John shuts up and looks at Roger. Fear flashes across his eyes for a moment; it’s not the reaction Roger wants, but it’s better than absolutely nothing.

“Deaky, please don’t freak out over this,” Roger says as gently as possible. “Get out your head, yeah? I promise nothing’s going to change between us.”

John softens just a bit, but it’s enough to lift the anxiety off of Roger’s shoulders. He gives John’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze before continuing. “It was just a fluke, that’s all.”

John furrows his brow. It looks like he is about to say something, but he just nods and agrees.

“Yeah. Just a fluke.”

***

And maybe it was.

After that day, they never speak of it again. It doesn’t take long for John and Roger to fall back into their old patterns. In fact, the very next time they see each other, Roger treats John like normal, like nothing ever happened, which makes it all the easier for John to fall in line and do the same.

The next seven months go by in a blur of gigs and practice and projects and exams as summer turns to autumn turns to winter and John is grateful for it. It makes it easier to stuff down the hot jealousy when Roger pulls a girl after a show, to not put much stock in any lingering glances Roger casts his way, and to put aside his own feelings in favor of their friendship.

After all, it was just a fluke.

That’s what John reminds himself of when Roger bends over to put down a box in the middle of John’s new flat and John has to turn away to avoid furiously blushing.

“That’s the last one, yeah?” Roger asks as he surveys the room.

“Yeah, thank you for all this,” John replies.

“It’s no problem,” Roger says.

After the winter term ended, John found himself a small studio flat, unable to take living in a residence hall for any longer.

The place is a piece of shit, honestly. The “furnished” studio can be walked from wall to wall in three paces. A broken fireplace takes up most of the far right wall with a small wardrobe on one side and a single bed shoved into the corner on the other. On the opposite wall from the front door, a sagging couch and wooden coffee table sit underneath the large window, crowding into the wardrobe.

To his left is a sad excuse for a kitchenette with just enough counter space to possibly make a sandwich. The bathroom leads off from the kitchen with a standing shower, the smallest toilet he’s ever seen, and an even smaller sink cramped inside.

John believes the flat used to be the office of the poor house that got all chopped up so college kids could have a cheap place to live. So, yeah, it’s not great. But it’s his. That alone makes him smile as he rips open the garbage bag that contains his bedding.

“What do you need me to do?” Roger asks as he pokes around the boxes that litter the apartment.

“Um.” John looks up from the fitted sheet he’s struggling with wearing a frustrated face that can almost be described as adorable. “You could start putting the clothes away. They take up most of the boxes anyway.”

“I swear, your wardrobe will outpace Fred’s soon,” Roger teases as he opens a box at random; it’s filled with what he would describe as ‘useless trash,’ but what John would describe as ‘useful parts.’

“It’s Freddie who’s giving me all of it,” John says as he goes back to his battle with the fitted sheet.

“Yeah, he steals it all from the stall.” Roger opens a few more boxes - records, books, an entire box of shoes - until he finds one with clothes inside.

“It’s not my fault your coworker has sticky fingers.”

Roger snorts a laugh at that as he leans against the arm of the couch and starts hanging shirts in the wardrobe.

He steals a glance at John and smiles to himself. It’s crazy how much John has changed in the past few months. Not just outwardly (though his clothes have gotten progressively tighter the longer he’s hung out with Freddie), but something inside of him seems to have settled, like he finally believes he’s a member of the band and not ‘The Newcomer.’

Maybe it’s Freddie’s mothering or Brian’s big brother-ing, but Roger likes to think he plays a part in it as well. After all, he is John’s best mate. He’s the one John can ramble on to for hours, he’s the one John shares all his inside jokes with, he’s the one John leans on when they’re too stoned to move.

Best friend. It’s the best role of all, it’s right there in the name. Can’t think of anything better.

***

Roger leans against the armrest of the couch with his legs over John’s lap as they enjoy a lunch of takeaway pizza. This is another one of those things John tries not to overthink. Personal space seems to have become a thing of the past between the two of them, and while John can’t complain, he certainly can’t help but notice that Roger isn’t nearly as touchy with Freddie or Brian.

Roger rants about something Brian did the other day to piss him off and while John lets him go on, he truthfully is only half-paying attention. His eyes wander around the studio and he observes what they managed to accomplish that morning.

Almost everything is unpacked - it’s not like John had much to move - and the flat looks a bit cozier now. The wardrobe is comically overstuffed and his bass leans on the wall next to it. His books line the mantle of the fireplace with a little space reserved at the end of it for his ‘bedside table.’ His desk lamp sits in the firebox with its cord stretched underneath John’s bed because Roger argued that, “you can turn it on and pretend you have a fire going.”

All of his spare parts and gadgets are stuffed underneath his bed along with the extra clothes that couldn’t fit in his wardrobe. His record player sits on the floor next to the couch and John makes a mental note to buy a table for it. It’s small, and maybe a bit bare, but it’s perfect.

A knock on his door interrupts John from his thoughts and Roger from his story.

“Knock, knock, Santa’s here!” Freddie’s voice comes clear through the door. Good to know his walls are probably made up of cardboard.

He looks at Roger who just gives a shrug, clearly as clueless as John.

John moves Roger’s legs off his lap and puts his paper plate down on the coffee table before he gets up and opens the door. What he sees in the hallway is a sight to behold.

Before him, Brian is holding on to a giant Christmas tree as tall as him and Freddie stands next to him, bundled in a fur coat with a large plastic bin at his feet. Roger’s laugh in the background confirms to John that he isn’t seeing things.

“Um.” John shakes out his head. “What’s all this?”

“It’s Christmas!” Freddie exclaims as he picks up the bin and breezes past John into the flat.

“But, Christmas isn’t for two weeks.”

“Yeah, try telling him that,” Brian grumbles.

“Oh, hush up,” Freddie says as he looks around. “You’re in a new flat and it needs some cheer. Christmas can come early.”

John laughs for a moment before he realizes that Brian is still in the hallway wrestling with the tree. He snaps into action and grabs one end to help him bring it inside.

“Where will we even put this, Freddie?” John asks. “It’s huge.”

“Oh.” Freddie seems to notice how small the space is for the first time even though he’s the one who helped John pick the place out. “How about right there?”

He points to the floor in front of the fireplace. John figures it’s as good a spot as any, so he and Brian drag the tree over and get it upright while Roger drags the coffee table closer towards the kitchen to make room.

John steps back and observes it. It’s way too big for the space and almost makes his flat look like a treehouse with a giant tree jutting up the middle. It’ll make getting into his bed and his wardrobe an event, but the whole thing is so heartwarming that he can deal with it for a few weeks.

“It’s perfect,” John says as Freddie grabs him around the waist and gives him a little squeeze.

“Fred, are these our ornaments?” Roger asks as he peers into the bin Freddie set on John’s bed.

“Yes they are, and what of it?” Freddie says.

“Nothing at all.” Roger laughs to himself as he digs to the bottom of the bin for the string of lights.

The four get to work decorating the tree. John and Roger string the lights by passing them around to each other as they work from the bottom to the top. Freddie and Brian reach around them to tie little bows out of red and white ribbon onto random branches.

Soon, they’re putting up the ornaments and Freddie spouts off the story behind almost every one of them: the little porcelain angel that was a gift from his sister; the tarnished silver bell that he found at a thrift store - he doesn’t think it was meant to be an ornament, but with a bit of string it hangs from the tree just as well; the crappy sparkly foam balls from the time he and Roger got very drunk and thought they could make their own ornaments.

“So crafty,” John teases.

“I’m a man of many talents.” Roger laughs as he waves the offensive ornament. John tries not to shiver when Roger places his hand on John’s lower back for balance as he reaches up to hang the ornament near the top.

As they continue on with the tree, Freddie pulls John into the kitchen area and starts digging through his large, embroidered tote bag on the counter.

“So, I was going to give this to you closer to Christmas,” Freddie says, pulling out a present carefully wrapped in brown paper. “but I just couldn’t wait any longer.”

“Freddie...” John says, though he knows it’s useless. Freddie’s penchant for gift-giving is notorious.

“None of that, darling!” Freddie bats his hand in the air as if he’s swatting away John’s trepidation before he places the present in John’s hand.

John smiles and leans his hip against the counter. He carefully unwraps the brown paper and when he pulls back the final piece, he sees it’s a framed black and white photo of the four of them at a gig they played a few months ago. Freddie is in the forefront with John leaning over his shoulder to sing into the microphone. Brian is to their left and Roger is in the background in his own little world on the drums.

John remembers the gig well. It was the first time they performed _Liar_ on stage and John was terrified about having to sing in front of an audience. He tried to hide it, but they all saw straight through him. Brian had given him a reassuring shoulder squeeze in the aloof way he is wont to do and Freddie showered him with praise and compliments, but of course it was Roger who brought him back down to earth. He had plopped down on the couch in the dressing room and laid out all the disaster scenarios that could happen to John besides his voice cracking, including falling off stage head first into a pretty girl or having a meteor crash directly into the venue. Somehow it helped and John got through the song without any problem.

John smiles to himself as Freddie starts to explain the gift. “Mary was taking pictures that night, and when I saw this one I just fell in love. I had one of my art friends develop it properly and I thought it would be just perfect for your new flat.”

“I know just the place for it,” John says.

He kneels at the end of his bed and slides out a box full of tools and hardware. He digs around until he finds his hammer and a nail and climbs to the head of his bed. He knocks on the wall until he finds a stud, slightly off center from his headboard, but it’s no matter, and hammers the nail into it. He places the hammer on the mantle so he can hang the picture. Once his task is done, he steps back, bracing his hand to the wall so he doesn’t lose his footing on the soft mattress.

The photo is too small for where it is, especially with nothing else on the wall, but it suddenly makes the little corner feel a bit cozier.

John turns his head to smile at Freddie. “What do you think?”

Roger stops putting the tinsel on the tree and leans his hands against the bed, peering at the photo. “I look hot.”

“I wasn’t asking you, Narcissus.” John playfully nudges Roger’s arm with his foot. 

Before he can pull it away, Roger grabs hold of John’s ankle and looks up at him with a mischievous glint in his eye. John looks down at him and it takes a second before he realizes what Roger is about to do.

“Don’t you dare,” John warns and tries to shake his ankle free, but Roger just tightens his grip and raises his eyebrow. “I’ll kill y--”

John’s threat is cut off when Roger yanks hard on John’s ankle and his legs go out from under him. He tumbles down and bounces onto the mattress with a loud _“oof!”_. He can hear Roger laughing as he scrambles to his knees and grabs his pillow.

“You shit!” John exclaims as he whacks Roger’s head with the pillow, throwing Roger off guard and causing him to stumble back into Brian. Brian stumbles a bit as well before he steadies Roger to avoid them both falling into the tree.

Brian rolls his eyes as he shoulders Roger off and returns his attention back to the tinsel.

John still has the pillow raised for another strike when Roger meets his eye. He holds the stare, but it only takes a moment before both of them crack and dissolve into a fit of hysterical laughter.

“Children,” Brian mutters under his breath, which only makes John and Roger laugh even harder.

***

The sun is set by the time the tree is done. The room is glowing with the warm lights from the Christmas tree since Freddie insisted they do away with the overhead lights to appreciate it in all its glory. John can’t argue that it does look beautiful.

The four squeeze into John’s couch and eat the leftover cold pizza from lunch in a comfortable, sleepy silence while his record player spins out a Christmas album. The whole scene looks utterly familial, like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting.

Roger shifts next to John and rests his head against John’s shoulder. John sinks down in the couch to make the height more comfortable for Roger and doesn’t resist the urge to rest his cheek against Roger’s head. He lets his eyes defocus and smiles as the Christmas lights turn into fuzzy dots like a swarm of fireflies.

Moments like these aren’t at all what John expected when he auditioned to join a college rock band, but it’s completely welcome. Because in that moment, he realizes that they’re not just a rock band, they’re a family.

John has a family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Roger's having an identity crisis, but you know him - why face the problem when you can ignore it instead?
> 
> I hope you all liked this chapter! It was really interesting to write, and the fuzzy Christmas scene just made me :(


	8. Let's Enjoy Tonight

The party is in full swing and John is hiding out in the kitchen. How he managed to let the others drag him out to the middle of nowhere for a giant house party hosted by a friend of Mary’s friend is beyond him.

“Let loose,” Freddie had told him. “Live a little,” Roger had chimed in.

And to be fair, he could use a night away from his textbooks. The spring term has become an all-consuming litany of projects, and while he can usually handle the stress, it has been wearing him down this year. So maybe he should stop being a party pooper and at least try to socialize.

John pushes himself off the counter and grabs a fresh beer out of the cooler. He leaves the kitchen and wanders into the hallway. The house is big - big enough that John has slowly lost his friends among the many rooms as they picked off one by one with their chosen company for the evening. 

Once he makes it back to the living room he leans against the wall, fiddling with his beer bottle. It’s even more crowded than he remembered. There are a lot of people laughing, some dancing, and a group on the couch clearly tripping out on something. John chuckles at the sight until his eyes land on something he’d rather not see.

Across the room, through the people passing in front of them, John spots Roger sitting in an armchair underneath a very gorgeous and very interested girl. His hand traces patterns up her thigh and their heads are so close together that they must be sharing breaths as they talk and giggle amongst each other.

John rips his eyes away and takes a large swig of his beer. He is about to push off the wall to find somewhere else to awkwardly lurk when he hears someone speak to him.

“Do you hate parties like this, too?”

“Hm?” John looks to his right to see the girl that has sidled up beside him. She has a blonde pixie cut and heavy eyelashes, almost like she got stuck in 1967. “Is it that obvious?”

“I get it, these things are dreadful,” she replies with a breathy giggle.

***

With a few shots of whiskey flowing through his veins and the heavy scent of weed and sweat in the air, Roger finds it difficult to focus on the woman perched in his lap. It’s not Misty’s fault, really. She’s interesting and funny and feels great with her arse squirming around, but his responses to her banter have dropped to half-hearted “that’s so funny”s and “mhm”s.

His eyes flick over yet again to where John has been chatting with a bird for the last twenty minutes. What he’s waiting for, he doesn’t know, but he can’t stop the way his skin itches when John laughs at something the pretty blonde says.

Roger forces himself back into his own conversation, but it isn’t long before his eyes wander away again. He watches as the blonde gets closer to John and stands on her tiptoes. John leans down a bit so she can whisper something in his ear, and by the way John’s eyes widen, Roger knows exactly what she asked.

He needs to stop staring. It’s weird, he has no right, and yet all he can do is watch and wait for John’s reaction.

John pulls away and says something with a small squeeze on her arm. From the way her shoulders drop, Roger can tell she was rejected, and he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. The blonde leans up to kiss John on the cheek before she disappears into the crowd and John is left alone. He leans back against the wall and scans the room until his eyes land on Roger’s.

Roger freezes like he was caught red handed and can only give a curt nod when John raises his bottle towards him in a quick ‘cheers’ motion.

“So.” Roger nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears a raspy voice in his ear. He almost forgot he had someone on his lap. “Would you like to show me that van of yours?”

He shivers when Misty catches his earlobe between her teeth and tightens his grip on her thigh when she leans back and looks at him with playful eyes.

“Sorry, love, I can’t tonight,” Roger says.

“You sure?” Misty asks, slightly shocked.

“Um.” Roger looks back at John who is still standing alone at the wall, eyes darting around with that faraway look he gets when he’s overwhelmed. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Alright.” Misty leans in and takes one last nip at his earlobe before she whispers, “Come find me if you change your mind.”

With one last squeeze on her thigh, Roger extracts himself from underneath Misty and makes his way across the room. John’s shoulders seem to visibly loosen as Roger takes the spot the blonde vacated just a minute ago. He puts his hands behind the small of his back and taps against the wall to release his restlessness.

“Having a good time?” Roger asks.

John gives a sidelong glance towards Roger who laughs a little at his own question. Of course he’s not; John hates parties.

“That girl you were with seemed pretty interested,” Roger continues, “Could tell from across the room.”

“She was,” John says before he drains the rest of his drink. When he pulls it away, he plays with the lip of the bottle, not offering anymore information. Roger rolls his eyes when he realizes he’s going to have to extract it from him; John can be a damn fortress when he wants to be.

“So, why’d you turn her down?” he prompts.

“Why are you so curious?” John bats back. 

Roger doesn’t have an answer to that. Well-- He doesn’t have an answer that he’ll ever allow himself to say out loud.

“I’m just looking out,” Roger finally says with a shrug.

John hums and nods his head, like he knows something Roger doesn’t.

Roger mimics John’s nod, unsure of what to do. He looks at John, who seems content to sit in silence and watch the other partygoers revel in their simple debauchery.

Roger isn’t a wallflower, though. Never has been. He feels out of place when he’s not the center of attention at a party. But right now he doesn’t want to be the spectacle that everyone watches. Even though he’s slightly tipsy - or maybe because he’s slightly tipsy - he’s not daft enough to miss that he only wants one person’s attention.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” Roger says before he can overthink it.

“Funny, that’s exactly what that girl said to me,” John teases, “You lot need to get better lines.”

“Alright, you twat,” Roger says, playfully swatting at John’s arm. “Be nice to the person who’s trying to save you from your misery.”

“I’m only miserable because you dragged me here.” John laughs as he shies away from Roger’s abuses.

“And now I’m saving you from it!” 

Before John can protest, Roger grabs his free hand and starts to pull him through the crowd.

John pitches forward and hopes his heel didn’t catch anyone's toes as he stumbles to catch up with Roger. He doesn’t stop the laughter that bubbles out of him as Roger impatiently drags him through the living room. He tugs on Roger’s hand to slow down for only a moment as they pass the coffee table to set his bottle down before Roger yanks him again.

John knows he hasn’t had enough alcohol to feel as giddy as he does when they start dodging and weaving their way through the crowd. He feels like a kid again running through the playground with his childhood friend.

As they push past a couple that’s all but dry humping in the open doorway to the back garden, Roger gives John’s hand a squeeze and looks back at John with a wide smile on his face that crinkles up his large eyes. If he was the romantic type, John would say time slowed down when that beaming smile landed on him. But he’s not, so instead John simply basks in it for the few seconds he’s given before Roger turns back around.

The two stumble outside into the sprawling back garden and Roger drops his hand as they take a few steps forward. The light from inside spills out onto the patio where a few couples dot around the place. Roger begins to lead them down the sloping lawn away from the house.

“Where are we going?” John asks as he tries to keep up with Roger’s pace, though his platforms make it difficult to do so in the squishy grass.

“Up ahead.” Roger nods towards a small set of stone stairs cut into the side of the hill. The two descend the stairs, leaving the warm glow of the party for the cool light of the moon.

When they get to the bottom, a small pond that was previously hidden from view by a clump of trees appears before them.

“Spotted it on the way in,” Roger says as he takes a seat in the grass and pats the spot next to him.

Roger doesn’t offer any more information and John doesn’t ask, content to leave the moment be. He sits next to Roger and draws his knees to his chest. He wraps his arms around his legs and rests his chin against the tops of his knees. The two stay in a comfortable silence as John looks out over the pond.

The sounds of the party, the music and chatter barely reach them, almost like it’s a distant, fading memory. The April breeze ripples along the surface of the pond, obscuring the reflection of the half moon inside of it. It’s cool breath reaches the trees on the other side of the pond and sways the paper lanterns hanging from their low branches. The soft hills are just barely illuminated by the moonlight beyond the short stone walls that surround the garden. It’s all so pretty that John can’t help but feel a little bad for whoever’s country house they’re at that is currently being trashed by a bunch of twenty-somethings.

“Thank you.” John breaks the silence.

“For what?” Roger asks.

John bites back a smile and rolls his eyes. “For saving me.”

Roger shrugs. “Truthfully, I was getting a bit bored in there.”

“You didn’t seem bored,” John says before he can stop himself. 

Roger shrugs his shoulders and makes a vague, noncommittal noise. He lifts his butt to grab his pack of smokes and takes one for himself before offering the pack to John. When John declines, he replaces the pack and lights his cigarette. He stretches his legs out in front of him and leans back on his elbows, his head disappearing from John’s view. 

John picks at the grass by his feet as silence settles over them again. A raucous laughter rings out from above them and John instinctively turns his head towards the sound, though he can’t see the house anymore from where they’re sitting. He turns his attention back to the grass, tearing the little pieces he picks down the middle.

“Hey,” Roger says softly.

“Hm?” John hums with his attention still on the grass he’s ripping.

“Look up.”

“What?” John turns to see what Roger’s on about, but Roger just smiles and nods his head towards the sky. He takes a long drag off his cigarette and drops his head back. John follows his gaze and looks up at the heavens.

John gasps and his cheeks heat up when Roger chuckles behind him.

“Don’t get that in the city,” Roger says.

“No, you don’t,” John agrees as his eyes trail over the night sky.

The moon hangs high overhead and stars twinkle all over. Even back home, he’s used to only seeing the brightest few - Orion’s Belt, the Big Dipper and all that - but here, it’s like the stars are trying to put on a show. He lies back to join Roger and soak in the rare spectacle.

“And look, it’s us,” Roger says, pointing at a spot in the sky.

“Us?”

John looks at Roger, who sticks his cigarette in his mouth and scoots closer. He drops from his elbows to lie back and lays his head almost on John’s shoulder so they can both see where he’s pointing.

“Okay, so if you look right… there,” Roger says, “Do you see that extra bright star?”

“Mhm,” John says, trying not to get distracted by the feeling of Roger’s hair on his cheek.

“So, if you trace upwards and around, you get this weird rectangle shape,” Roger explains, demonstrating with his finger. “Then you have this kind of hook that goes off the top. That’s Leo.

“And then if you go a bit to the right,” Roger shifts his arm. “You see how that clump kind of makes an upside-down ‘Y’? That’s Brian.

“Then down and to the left.” John tracks Roger’s finger as he circles around a larger group of stars. “That’s Freddie. You can’t see all his stars, but they’re there.”

Roger drops his hand and takes his cigarette from where it’s hanging between his lips. He goes quiet for a moment before he piques up again. John can barely hear him when he says, “We’re all of us in the sky together.”

“Since when do you know so much about constellations?” John softly nudges Roger’s side with his elbow. He knows Roger well enough not to call attention to his sudden sincerity.

“Brian doesn’t have a monopoly on the stars, you know,” Roger jokes as he shifts away from John’s shoulder and props himself on his elbow to face John.

He looks like a nymph with his hair falling softly over his shoulders, shadowing his face from the soft moonlight. John decides it’s probably not best to be practically lying underneath Roger fucking Taylor, so he sits up a little and leans back on his elbows.

“John?” Roger’s voice sounds almost tentative.

“What’s up?” John asks, keeping his eyes trained on the pond. Roger doesn’t say anything right away, and John is about to turn towards him when Roger finally speaks up.

“Do you ever think about where we’re going with all this?” From the corner of his eye, John can see Roger shift onto his back. “Like where we’re going to be in the next five years?”

“Um, not really,” John replies. “Have you?”

“Of course. I’ve known where I was going since I was a kid,” Roger says as if it’s obvious.

“What, are you about to tell me it’s written in the stars?” John teases and turns his head with a cheeky smile.

“Piss off!” Roger purses his lips against his own smile and takes a drag off his cigarette, blowing it into the breeze. “I mean it, honestly, I think about this stuff all the time.”

John is taken aback. Roger is never this open. Usually with him, the truth is buried under multiple layers of humor or childish tantrums, and yet here he is, speaking like a true dreamer underneath the night sky.

“So, where are you going to be in five years?” John asks gently, afraid to break whatever spell has settled over them.

Roger looks at him out of the corner of his eye and smirks. “Selling out stadiums.”

John can’t help but snort at that and brings his hand to his mouth in reaction to the unattractive sound.

“That’s a pretty lofty goal,” John says.

“I don’t think so.” Roger takes a final drag from his cigarette before he snuffs it out on the grass and puts the butt in his pocket. “We’re on to something, Deaks, I can feel it.”

“Maybe,” John says, unconvinced. 

“Have you really not let yourself imagine it?” Roger asks, turning back to his side and propping his head in his hand.

No. He hasn’t. Because as lovely as the idea sounds, he refuses to get his hopes up when he knows they’ll only be crushed. Cursed to be a realist, John understands that they’ll all fall apart sooner rather than later, move on to their grown up lives, and become wedding and funeral friends. He won’t tell Roger that, though. The man will probably bludgeon him for speaking such blasphemy.

“I just haven’t thought that far ahead, I guess,” John says.

“For the amount of time you spend in your head, I’d have thought you’d have your whole future planned out by now.”

John turns on his side to mirror Roger and starts picking at the grass again.

“I dunno. I quite like where I am right now,” John says truthfully. “I’ll figure out the rest later.”

He knows this won’t last forever - this night, this band, even this friendship with Roger. Maybe because of that, he’s doomed to pass through these moments feeling nostalgic for them before they’re even over. Or maybe he’s blessed because he can appreciate them better than the others. Or maybe he really does spend too much time in his head and he just needs to take these moments for what they are.

“Well, lucky for you, I know exactly where you’re going,” Roger says, pulling John back out of his thoughts.

“And where’s that?” John raises his eyebrows.

“With me.”

John’s breath catches and he looks into Roger’s eyes that are sparkling brighter than the stars above them.

“We’re going to take over the world, you and I.” Roger sounds so sure that John can’t help but believe him.

Realism be damned.

“What about the others?” John asks, a smile growing across his face.

“They can come, too.” Roger crinkles his nose like he’s sharing a little secret and it makes John feel silly and light, sucked into his golden optimism.

“Rog, I--”

John closes his mouth as quickly as he opened it and his heart stops when he realizes what he was about to say.

“What?” Roger asks. John’s panic must be written all over his face by the way Roger furrows his brow.

Not tonight. John can worry about it later, but right now he just wants to enjoy tonight without making things more complicated than they need to be. So instead of what he was about to say, he goes with the next best thing.

“You’re my best friend, you know that?”

Roger looks into John’s eyes like he’s searching for something before he gently nudges John’s shoulder. “Alright, don’t get soppy on me, Deacon.”

“You started it!” John laughs and nudges him back.

“Doesn’t sound like me,” Roger says with a smile that gives him away.

“You git,” John says as his laughter subsides.

John follows Roger’s lead when he flops onto his back. He props his knees up and digs his heels into the soft grass; he’ll deal with the mud on the suede later. He brings his arms behind his head, looks up into the sky and tries to retrace the constellations, though they’re all just a jumble of stars now.

They’re all together up there.

If John lets himself dream - just a little - he might almost believe that they’re intrinsically linked. That the pictures in the sky made up by strangers many centuries before them can somehow bless fate in their favor. That his found family will never leave him and the four of them will still be together somehow when they’re old and grey. It’s unlikely, maybe even near impossible, but maybe John deserves to hope just a little.

***

“I’m fucking coming! Christ.” 

Roger pulls Freddie’s silk robe across his chest as he pads through the kitchen, leaving a trail of water droplets behind him to answer whoever has been incessantly knocking on the door.

“What the fuck is it, Bri?” Roger says when he opens the door and Brian breezes past him into the flat. After a long day at the stalls freezing his nuts off only to sell a single polysatin vest, he is in no mood for niceties.

“What took you so long?” Brian asks as he takes off his heavy coat and tosses it unceremoniously onto the armchair nearest the door.

“I was in the bloody shower!” Roger exclaims and slams the door closed.

“You should be nicer to me,” Brian says, looking decidedly smug and leaning his back against the countertop.

“And why is that, you prat?”

Roger walks around the countertop through the kitchen and into the bathroom. He grabs a towel off the back of the door and starts scrunching his hair.

“Because.” Brian smirks as Roger comes back into the common room.

“Wow, thank you for the compelling argument.” 

“Where’s Freddie?” Brian asks, ignoring Roger’s sarcasm.

Roger nods to Freddie’s closed bedroom door. “With Mary.”

“Right.” Without hesitation, Brian walks over to Freddie’s door and starts pounding on it. “Freddie-poo, open up!”

“Jesus, Bri, what are you on tonight?” Roger says as he wraps the towel around his hair in a turban. After he flips his head back up, Freddie’s door unceremoniously swings open and Freddie appears, shirtless and annoyed.

“Darling, what are you doing in my flat?” Freddie says. Mary appears behind him, buttoned up but hair disheveled.

“God, you’d think I was the taxman with the way you lot treat me.” Brian’s good mood is undeterred and it only serves Roger’s bad one even more.

“I apologize, but I was in the middle of something when you dropped in,” Freddie says.

“As that may be, I come bearing good news,” Brian says as he moves back to the kitchen with a slight skip in his step.

“And pray tell, what is it?” Freddie says, leaning against his door frame.

“Would anyone like some tea?” Brian is like a damn cat playing with its prey.

“Holy shit, just out with it, mate!” Roger all but yells.

“Now, with that attitude, I don’t think I should say it.”

“Ridiculous,” Freddie says with an impressive eye roll and turns to go back in his room.

“Alright!” Brian laughs and holds out his hand to stop Freddie. “Alright, I suppose I’ll tell you.”

He leans up on the counter and Roger doesn’t think he’s ever seen Brian this excitable in the entire time he’s known him.

“We’re making an album.”

Roger’s knees go weak and he puts his hand on the back of the armchair to steady himself as looks at Brian with his mouth hanging wide open. The room is deathly silent as Brian looks expectantly between him, Freddie, and Mary. Even the radiator seems to have gone quiet.

Roger finally lets out a weak, “What?”

“I said we’re making an album, mate.” Brian smiles bigger than Roger ever thought possible for the pensive man.

“How?” Freddie asks, clearly as shocked as Roger.

“I have a friend who works at Trident,” Brian explains as Freddie finally emerges from his bedroom doorway and goes to the counter. “They built a new recording studio and need people to test it out. They said we can go there after hours and record for free to test all of the equipment and the like.”

Brian keeps talking but Roger stops listening. He keeps a death grip on the armchair as it’s the only thing keeping him upright at the moment.

An album. A bloody album. They’re going to record their music and people are going to buy it and bring it home and listen to it on their record players. Complete strangers will cook, clean, drink and fuck while their voices, their instruments, their fucking music spins out in the background.

Roger gasps and pops his head up.

“I have to tell John,” he announces to no one in particular and takes off for his room. 

He roots through the pile of clothes on his chair until he finds a pair of semi-clean underpants and puts it on. He barely registers Freddie coming into the room behind him as he shrugs off the robe and starts rummaging around for a pair of jeans.

“Darling, what are you doing?” Freddie asks.

“I’m going to tell John,” Roger replies as he hops into a pair of jeans, which is a bit of a struggle since his legs are still damp.

“Why don’t you just call him, love?”

“Are you joking?” Roger asks as he takes the towel off his head and rubs his hair a few more times. “This is not the kind of thing you say over the phone.”

“Yes, but it’s the middle of November. You’ll catch your death if you go out there right now.” Freddie indicates towards Roger’s damp hair.

“I’ll be fine,” Roger says as he pulls a jumper over his head and scoops his hair out from under the neckline.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Freddie says and Roger waves him off, ignoring the exasperated sigh he gets in response.

He sits on the edge of his bed to wrestle on a pair of socks before pulling on his boots and grabbing his overcoat from his closet.

He bustles out the apartment, pausing for only a moment with his hand on the doorknob to turn around and look at his bandmates.

“We’re making a bloody album.” Roger barely bites back a girly screech and instead slams the door behind him to release his pent up excitement.

He all but runs down the stairs and out of the building. The cold winter wind slaps him across the face and stings his damp scalp, but he can’t bring himself to care. He fights against the wind to the car park and clambers into his freezing van. Once inside, he finally allows himself the scream that has been banging inside of his chest since Brian made the announcement. He slams his bare hands against the mercilessly cold steering wheel and lets it all out.

***

“Deaky! Deaky, open up!” Roger bangs on John’s door, unphased by the fact that it’s ten at night and he’s probably making an enemy of the neighbors.

He doesn’t let up until the door flies open. John stands in the doorway in sweatpants and an oversized jumper wearing a bewildered look on his face.

“Is everything alright?” John asks hurriedly.

“Everything’s just perfect, mate.” Roger pushes past John into his flat much like Brian did to him not twenty minutes ago.

The coffee table is covered in textbooks and scraps of paper and Roger barely registers that he’s probably interrupting a cramming session, but his announcement far outweighs any exam John could be worrying about. He makes a beeline for John’s small refrigerator and throws it open.

“You got anything to drink?” Roger asks, surveying the meager contents of his fridge.

“Why?”

Roger hears John close the door behind him and looks over his shoulder. He can see the gears turning in John’s head as he tries to puzzle out what’s happening. Roger bites his bottom lip to keep from smiling too hard before giving up entirely and letting his smile grow as large as it wants.

“Cause we’ve gotta celebrate,” Roger beams.

“Celebrate what?” John tentatively moves away from the door towards the kitchen.

He can’t take it any longer. He closes the refrigerator and turns around, holding on to the handle as he leans back against it.

Roger takes a second to observe John - memorize exactly how he looks in the moment before he realizes his life is about to change. He soaks in the way John stands there at the edge of his kitchen in his wool socks and blue sweatpants and gray jumper, the way he crosses his arms over his chest, the way he looks at Roger expectantly with a little bit of annoyance in his features.

“We’re making an album.”

Roger doesn’t take his eyes off of John. He watches as every emotion under the sun seems to pass across his face; how he goes from confusion to hope to disbelief to shock in the blink of an eye. Nothing could look more perfect.

After what feels like an eternity, John finally lets out a little laugh.

“Are you taking the piss?” he asks, his voice barely coming out above a squeak.

Roger slowly shakes his head, his cheeks hurting from the smile that’s been plastered across his face since he walked in the door.

Before he can register what’s happening, John is on him, his arms wrapped tight around Roger's neck and his face buried in the thick fabric of his overcoat. Roger doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around John’s back, squeezing him into a bear hug. The handle of the refrigerator door presses uncomfortably into Roger's spine, but it's not enough to rip him away from the embrace.

The smell of John’s laundry detergent - clean and slightly floral - fills Roger's nostrils as he laughs into the soft knit of John’s jumper and scrunches up the fabric in his hands. John sniffles into the coat and Roger hugs him tighter, if that’s even possible.

When John finally pulls away, his eyes glitter with tears and he uses the sleeve of his jumper to wipe his nose.

“Sorry,” John whispers and laughs softly as a few more tears spring free and roll down his cheeks.

Without thinking, Roger reaches up and gently brushes away the tears with the backs of his fingers. The gesture surprises John as much as it does Roger judging by the way his eyes widen as they snap up from the ground.

Roger pulls his hand away and stuffs it into his coat pocket. He presses back further into the hard, unforgiving appliance to get away from John’s invitingly warm body. John must realize how close they’re standing because he suddenly steps back and self-consciously wraps his arms around his stomach.

John clears his throat. “How?”

“Friend of Brian’s,” Roger says, standing a bit straighter now that he's not surrounded by John. “Got us in at a new studio. They get guinea pigs to test their new space and we get free studio time.”

John walks away in a daze and sits down on his couch. Roger follows him and perches on the arm rest as John drops his head in his hands. John takes in a few shaky breaths as he tries to calm himself. Roger almost puts a hand on John's shoulder. Almost.

John finally lifts his head up and looks at Roger with his red nose and splotchy cheeks.

“We’re making an album," he says through a sputtering laugh.

“We’re taking over the world,” Roger counters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They say it's always calmest before the storm. You didn't hear it from me, but I heard that something's about to boil over...
> 
> In all seriousness, I hope you liked this chapter! I'm so excited to post this one because the party scene is what inspired this entire fic in the first place! Was I a bit heavy handed with the You and I references? One hundred percent, but that's the fun of it, darlings! Also, I'm so excited for the next few chapters coming up because ho-ho-holy shit are they meaty. A lot of the scenes have already been written for weeks because they were bouncing around in my brain so much that I had to get them out. Eeeek I can hardly wait!


	9. Straight as an Arrow

A pair of long legs clad in tight bell bottom jeans drape over Roger’s lap in the back of the dark cab. He noses wavy, chestnut brown hair out of his way as his tongue finds the neck that’s bared for him and he bites down, letting out a soft chuckle at the gasp it produces.

“Patience is a virtue, you know.”

“I got locked out of heaven a long time ago, sweetheart,” Roger says, running his hand up to squeeze the arse he’s been staring at all night. “I’m not worried about being virtuous.”

“You need to get better lines.”

“I’ve already got you, though,” Roger says before he trails his lips down.

“Not yet.”

“You sure?” Roger challenges and lifts his head to look into those beautiful hazel eyes, a smirk playing on his lips.

“I like to make my men work for it.” 

“Challenge accepted.”

Roger leans in and captures those pouty lips against his, too drunk to care if they’re making the cabbie up front uncomfortable.

So far, his night off is going swimmingly. After being holed up in the studio night after night for three weeks - which has been a dream come true, he just had no idea how exhausting making an album actually was - Roger only had two items on his agenda for the night: get as drunk as he can and find someone to take home.

The first was easy enough to accomplish. After the others blew off his invitation, Roger made his way to his favorite club in Soho and downed shot after shot of their cheapest liquor. 

The second task was also easy to accomplish. After his fifth shot and a circle around the club, he spotted the girl he would take home. She was pretty and unobtrusive. A wallflower. Not Roger’s normal type, but something about her soft features and the way she peered around the room as if she could read everyone like a book drew him to her.

Unfortunately, Roger is too drunk now to remember her name. Or maybe she never gave it to him. It doesn’t matter, though. It’s unlikely she remembers his name either.

He feels the cab come to a stop and hears the cabbie clear his throat rather loudly. Roger breaks away from those tantalizing lips and reaches into his coat pocket to grab his wallet. As his company shuffles out of the cab, he hands the cabbie some bills - likely much more than his fare, but he can’t be arsed to count right now.

Roger allows himself to be led inside the girl’s building and up to her flat, only stopping once to push her up against the stairwell to snog her senseless before chasing her up the rest of the stairs, leaving them both breathless and giggling by the time they get to her flat.

The door is scarcely closed before Roger pushes the cute brunette against it. He lets her rip off his coat and throw it on the couch beside them.

“Any roommates we need to be quiet for?” Roger asks as he slips his hands underneath her coat and runs his fingertips along the exposed skin in between her crop top and jeans.

“Not tonight.” She says, wrapping her arms around Roger’s neck and pulling him towards her.

“Good,” Roger whispers before tightening his grip on her waist and closing the small gap between their lips.

“Lead the way,” he says once they break apart.

His company pushes off the wall and shrugs off her own coat before leading them down a short hallway to her bedroom. Once inside, she pushes Roger onto her bed, straddles him, and takes off her top in one smooth move that leaves Roger more impressed than anything. He runs his hands up her back and savors the way she shivers under his touch.

Roger pulls her down and leaves a trail of sloppy kisses up her neck. Her little gasps and whines cut through Roger’s drunken haze to drive him absolutely wild, and he can’t bite back the moan she pulls out of him when she grinds down on his half-hard cock.

He feels the girl’s hot breath against his ear before she says, “I want you to fuck me from behind.”

Roger almost laughs from shock and pulls away to look at her. “No playing games with you, huh?”

She simply smiles down at him and shrugs her shoulders. “I know what I want.”

Damn. He should go for the quiet ones more often.

“Well, I always aim to please, sweetheart,” Roger says before he wraps his arm around her waist and flips them over.

He gets off the bed and pulls her to the edge before flipping her on her stomach and letting her settle her feet onto the floor. He kisses and bites down her back and plays his hands around her waistband until he reaches the button on her jeans.

He leans up a bit while he fiddles with the button and takes her in.

In the soft glow of the streetlamp through her window, he can see the way the muscles in her back tense slightly as she leans on her elbows and her brown hair falls in waves around her bare shoulders, looking so perfectly tugable.

_Huh. From this angle, she almost looks like Deaky._

The sneaky thought sends a jolt of electricity down Roger’s spine before his rational mind has a chance to catch up.

Once he pieces together what he just thought and how he just reacted, Roger’s heart stops and he freezes, his hands locked where they were in their task.

The girl turns over her shoulder and looks at him quizzically. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” Roger snaps back into himself. “Yeah, of course.”

Roger plants a kiss on her lower back and resumes his mission, but by the time her zipper is down and his fingers are around the waistband, his hands are trembling.

“Fuck,” Roger says, removing his hands and standing up. “No, I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”

“What--”

“Listen, it’s not you, you’re lovely,” Roger says as she turns around and sits on the bed, her hand self-consciously moving to cover her chest.

“I--”

“I know. It’s shit, I’m sorry. I really have to go.” Roger starts backing out of her room, thankful that she never turned the light on so she can’t see his burning cheeks.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Don’t worry, I know the way out,” Roger says to stop her from following him.

He hurries out of her bedroom and makes his way to the front door. He barely remembers to grab his coat on the way out and he wrestles it on as he bolts down the stairwell and out the building.

The cold winter air wraps around him as he picks a direction and starts walking. He’s drunk, alone, horny, and very, _very_ ashamed. His breath quickens along with his pace as he blindly stumbles through a neighborhood he vaguely recognizes.

A wave of nausea washes over Roger, and he grabs on to a lamppost as he swallows it back.

Roger kicks the lamppost in frustration and lets out a string of expletives as a sharp pain shoots up his leg. The pain at least grounds him enough to look around and try to figure out where the hell he is. 

***

“Deaky! Deaky darling, open up!” Roger leans against John’s door and knocks, laughing at his terrible Freddie impression.

“Come on, John, if you don’t let me in I’ll freeze to death in this hallway and it’ll be all your fault!” Roger giggles even more. That’ll surely get him to answer.

He keeps knocking, resting all his weight against the door until his support disappears and he stumbles inside John’s flat.

Once Roger rights himself, he looks around until he finds John still holding on to the open door. Roger turns to fully face him and can’t stop himself from taking in his mussed up hair, bleary eyes, and his long legs in obscenely short light blue boxers.

“Roger?” John’s groggy voice snaps Roger out of his trance. “What the hell are you doing here?”

_What is he doing here? Oh yeah, he was in the neighborhood._

“I was in the neighborhood,” Roger answers with a decisive nod.

John gently closes the door and latches it, not once taking his confused gaze off of Roger.

“Doing what?”

_Trying to fuck a stranger who looks like you._

“Clubbing.”

“But there’s no clubs--”

“Shh. Hush.” Roger stumbles towards John and tries to place his finger over his mouth but misses by a mile and ends up hitting the side of his cheek instead. John brushes it away and Roger barely catches a flash of annoyance on his face. He can’t have that.

“Alright, now. Let’s have a drink,” Roger says as he turns to the kitchen and does his best to walk to the refrigerator. That’s all John needs - a drink to loosen him up a bit.

“No, Rog.”

Roger hears John come up behind him. He almost has the fridge open when John’s hand comes into view and presses it closed again.

“Oh, come on, don’t be a spoilsport!” Roger tries to tug on the handle, but the door doesn’t budge. John is stronger than he looks. _Wonder what else he can hold down._

Roger throws up his hands in surrender and wheels around. He scans over the room until his eyes settle on the little table with the record player. That’s what they need - some music to lighten up the mood. He takes the few steps towards the table, vaguely aware that John is right on his heels.

“Watcha in the mood for tonight, Deaks?” Roger asks as he starts flipping through John’s record collection.

“It’s the middle of the night, we’re not playing music.” John’s hand comes back to prevent Roger from flipping through any more albums, but now Roger isn’t having any of it. John is just getting in the way of both of their fun.

Roger tries to bat John’s hand out of the way, but John doesn’t move. Roger tries again, so John slaps his hand back, letting out a frustrated sigh, but it’s all too funny to Roger so he does it again and again until he dissolves into a fit of laughter.

“Jesus, Roger!” John’s irritation cuts clear through his voice.

“You’re so tense,” Roger teases as he walks his fingers up John’s arm. John ignores it and looks Roger dead in the eyes.

“What are you doing here? Really.” John’s tone sucks the air out of the room and Roger knows exactly what he’s implying.

“What do you mean? You’re my mate.” Roger tries to laugh it off, but John is having none of it. 

“You show up at my flat, drunk, at three in the morning cause I’m your mate?” John challenges.

“Alright, I don’t need this.” Roger squirms away from John’s unrelenting gaze and makes a break for the door. “I’ll just go if I’m being so bloody intrusive.”

“Wait!” Roger has his hand on the doorknob when John catches his wrist. “I can’t let you leave.”

Roger smiles to himself. _Got him._

“And why is that?” Roger asks as he turns around. He bites on his bottom lip and chuckles when John rolls his eyes.

“It’s the middle of the night, you’re drunk off your mind, it’s freezing outside, you can’t possibly walk back to your flat from here, do I need to go on?”

“So, what do you suppose we do instead?”

Roger uses the fact that John’s hand is still around his wrist to pull him close and laughs when John pulls away again. The whole situation seems impossibly ridiculous and Roger only wants to egg it on.

“Come on, Rog. Just get into bed, sleep it off.” John begins to gently steer him away from the door. “I’ll take the couch.”

Roger laughs at that and twists around to face John again. 

“I don’t think you want that,” Roger teases.

“Rog, what are you on ab--”

“Oh, come off it.” Roger slaps at John’s arm before he moves his hand up to John’s shoulder and plays with the soft hair draped over it. “I’ve seen the way you look at me, John.”

John pales and he opens and closes his mouth a few times like he’s trying to remember how words are supposed to feel.

“What?” John’s voice sounds infinitesimally small.

“Don’t look so terrified!” Roger booms through the quiet before he leans in closer and drops his voice a pitch. “I get it.”

“Roger…” John looks like he is about to be sick.

“I mean, look at me!” Roger ignores John’s reaction to grab John’s hand and lifts it high, twirling himself underneath it. “ _Everyone_ wants this.”

“Roger, please--” 

Roger cuts him off and pulls him in closer. “I don’t blame you, John.”

“Just shut up and get into the bed!” John snaps.

“Mmm, bossy.” Roger giggles, tickled at John’s sudden outburst. “Didn’t know you had that side to you, Deaks.”

“Roger, you’re off your mind, just get into bed.”

John tries to usher Roger to the small bed, but Roger isn’t having any of it. “I’ll only go if you join me.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Yes, I do.”

John rolls his eyes and tries a little more forcefully to get Roger to move, his patience clearly wearing thin. Roger giggles and wraps his hand around the back of John’s head. He tucks John’s hair back and brings his lips in close to his ear.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Roger whispers, smiling when John shivers.

“No.” John sounds like an exasperated parent, but Roger holds fast.

“I look at you, too.”

There’s a beat where Roger can swear he hears John thinking of his next move. Roger laughs when John ducks out from under Roger’s grip and holds him out by the shoulders.

“You’re drunk,” John says simply.

“And you’re sexy.”

John stares at him in shock before he shakes his head as if to shake the comment out of his mind.

“Please, just work with me here,” John mumbles as he moves his hands to Roger’s coat to try and unbutton it.

“Oh, you’re undressing me now, is that it?” Roger trails his fingers up John’s sides, pushing up the thin fabric of his t-shirt.

“Roger.” John’s tone is firm when he pushes Roger’s hands away and grabs Roger’s hips to still him.

Roger quietly gasps at the contact and immediately hopes John didn’t catch it; his grip seems to burn holes through Roger’s coat. He brings his hands to John’s chest, about to push out of his grasp, when his eyes lock onto those sinfully pouty lips.

Warm desire pools deep in Roger’s abdomen followed quickly by a searing shame that burns across his chest and chokes him out. Neither of them move as the room crackles with something that Roger would rather not name.

Roger quirks his own lip and practically vibrates out of his skin in a battle against the profond urge to pull John down into a kiss, throw him against the wall, and make him scream so loud he wakes the entire street.

In the end, Roger has to do _something_ to satisfy the unfathomable hunger inside of him. He brings his pointer finger up and sloppily presses it to John’s slightly parted lips. He can feel John’s breath puff out around his finger as he tightens his grip on Roger’s hips.

Slowly, so slowly, Roger drags his finger down and his breath catches as John’s bottom lip goes with it, revealing the wet, pink skin that usually remains so coyly out of view. Once the tip of Roger’s finger reaches John’s chin, he watches as John’s lip bounces back into place. Roger sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth when John’s tongue instinctively darts out to wet his lips, giving them a slight sheen in the dim light of the room.

Roger finally dares to look in John’s eyes, and in them he sees frustration, confusion, and Roger’s own carnal desires reflected back at him.

He grips the thin fabric of John’s shirt and tries desperately to stuff his insatiable need back down into the darkness. It’s like the universe is playing a cruel, cruel trick on him - it gave him the perfect person, but made him a man.

Roger searches John’s eyes, silently begging him to understand something he can’t even put words to.

“I’m not bent, mate,” Roger finally says, though it comes out as a desperate plea rather than a statement of fact.

Even in his plastered state, Roger can see the anguish in his friend’s eyes before it’s replaced by something even worse: a cold, steely nothingness. His grip on Roger’s hips doesn’t move as he searches Roger’s eyes, boring holes so deep Roger is almost convinced John can see into his soul.

When John finally speaks, the shaky quality in his voice gives away the turmoil going on behind his mask, the mask Roger made him put up.

“What do you want from me, Roger?” 

_Everything._

“Nothing.”

Roger twists out of John’s inviting grip and turns his back on him as he takes the few steps back to the front door.

“Roger…” John’s voice cracks slightly and Roger has to bite hard on his lip to resist grabbing John’s hand when he feels it brush against his own.

“Back off, mate,” Roger says. “I’m serious.”

Roger pauses for one more moment in the open doorway. He doesn’t turn around to face John. He knows if he looks back, looks upon the face of the person he broke, he’ll either fuck him or punch him, and right now he doesn’t know which would be worse.

Before he can sink them any deeper into the shit, Roger heads out into the cold for the second time that night.

The gentle click of the door as Roger closes it behind him is the only sound that rings through John’s ears. He stands in a state of abject shock and stares at the spot Roger occupied only a second ago. For the first time in his life, there is no chatter in his brain, no panic or racing thoughts. His mind is totally blank aside from one, single, quiet whisper.

_What the fuck just happened?_

***

“Yeah, he’s here… came stumbling in before dawn… didn’t even make it to his bed.”

Roger can barely register Freddie’s voice talking quietly into the phone. He feels a sharp headache behind his temples and puts off opening his eyes for as long as he can.

“Thank you for checking in, love… Yes, eight o’clock… Alright, get some rest, you’ve earned it.”

Roger already knows who Freddie is talking to. Unfortunately, he got the worst kind of drunk last night - drunk enough to be sloppy and careless, but not enough to blackout and forget it all.

He stirs on the couch and every limb feels like lead. He finally opens his eyes, though the effort is so great that it only exhausts him again. The world is slightly fuzzy, but he can make out the pattern in their crochet throw blanket, which means he’s facing the back of the couch. He makes an attempt to turn around, but it’s too much and he gives up again.

“Oh, look who’s finally awake!” Freddie says at full volume. Roger can only wince and take it; he knows Freddie is doing it on purpose.

“Freddie, please,” Roger croaks out weakly.

“No.” Freddie says, coming closer to Roger. “Don’t give me that shit when you show up slobbering drunk at Deaky’s place like a right twat and then stumble on home when he has the common decency to try to help you. You left the poor kid worried sick!”

Oh, God. A black pit forms in Roger’s stomach. John couldn’t have told Freddie everything Roger did. He wouldn’t do that, wouldn’t reveal that. Right?

Roger puts all his effort into adjusting his body so he can turn his head to face the room. He squints up to see Freddie standing over him looking about ready to launch into a lecture.

“What did he tell you?” Roger asks.

“Nothing more than that,” Freddie says, “Why? Did you do something?”

“No,” Roger mumbles as he pushes himself up into a sitting position. “Just acted like an arse.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.”

“Freddie…” Roger keeps his face in his hands. If he moves he might throw up.

“You better apologize today. I don’t want any trouble recording--”

“Freddie.” Roger cuts him off and looks up into his eyes. “Please. Just… please.”

Roger must look extremely desperate, because for once in his life, Freddie actually backs off. He rolls his eyes and turns on his heel, making a point to slam the door to his bedroom when he disappears inside.

Roger pushes off the couch and stumbles his way into the bathroom, keeping the lights off as he runs the shower. He peels off his clothes smelling of booze and body odor and climbs into the tub.

He tries to stand under the shower, but the steam and the heat make him feel woozy, so he sits at the bottom of the tub and allows the water to wash over him as he curls up into himself.

Flashes of the night before burst through Roger’s consciousness to torture him. He rubs at his eyes, tries desperately to think of anything else, but they refuse to be ignored any longer.

They beat away at Roger’s heart in the same way he beats on his drums until, with a shuddering breath, Roger lays down his weapons and resigns the fight. There’s no denying it anymore. After one more pound against his chest, his secret shame breaks free and spills out like the intestines of a gutted cow onto the shower floor.

He wants John. He wants to have him in every sense of the word.

Roger releases a sob into his hands, though no tears come out. He’s straight. Or at least, he desperately wants to be straight.

He can’t handle being a taboo, a social pariah. His family will shun him, the public will hate him. His dreams will be shot down before he even has a chance to realize them. Everything he’s been working towards will be shattered and left on the ground to cut up his knees as he tries to pick up the pieces.

More than that, John is his friend and his bandmate. He can’t risk fucking it up more than he already has. Queen can’t lose John and he can’t lose John. It just can’t happen. He can’t risk it.

Roger stays in the shower long after the water runs cold, his penance for being a shit person and a shittier friend. Once he finally turns off the water, he stays at the bottom of the cold, damp tub. He watches as the last of the water circles the drain and realizes that for the first time in a long time, he’s completely lost and utterly alone.

***

John tracks Roger as he enters the studio and puts his stuff down in the seat next to the producer’s chair. He doesn’t take off his sunglasses, and if that’s because he’s still hungover or because he wants to avoid people’s gaze is anyone's guess.

John is considering whether or not to talk to Roger when he feels the couch dip next to him and turns to see Brian.

“How are you feeling?” Brian asks.

“Exhausted,” John replies causing Brian to chuckle lightly. Out of the corner of his eye, John can see Roger trying to eavesdrop on their conversation.

“Yeah, Fred told me what happened,” Brian says, clapping John on the back. “If it makes you feel better, the bastard’s done it to me once or twice, too.”

John laughs at that. Brian and Freddie don’t know what _really_ happened last night, but the thought of a drunk Roger trying to come on to Brian is funny enough that it eases some of the tension in of John’s shoulders.

“You mean to tell me I can look forward to more late-night house calls?” John looks up at Brian with an easy grin.

“Unfortunately, it’s all part of the Taylor experience,” Brian jokes and claps John’s back once more before heading off again.

John looks back at Roger and catches him quickly turn away, pretending to read the notebook in front of him. He sighs when he realizes he’s going to have to be the adult in this situation.

He waits one more moment walking over to steal the producer’s vacant swivel chair. When he sits down, he tucks one leg under the other, careful not to let his heel catch on the leather seat.

“Still hungover?” John asks.

Roger looks at him over his glasses. “What gave it away?”

“I got a hangover that lasted two days once,” John says, trying to lighten the mood. “Just the smell of Sauza makes me sick now.”

An uncomfortable silence settles over the two of them until John finally finds the bravery to ask the question that’s been playing on his mind all day.

“Do you… Do you remember anything from last night?” John drops his voice to avoid being overheard by the others.

“Not really.” Roger shifts his body back to the notebook. “Got kinda blackout once I left the club.”

It’s a blatant lie and John doesn’t even attempt to hide his scoff. The least Roger can do is own up to it, even if he wants to go ahead and call it a fucking fluke again. But this isn’t the time or the place to press the issue.

Without another word, he leaves Roger and flops back on the couch. He buries his nose in his textbook, hoping to deter anyone from starting a conversation with him.

***

“Try it again,” Roger says over the mic. It’s nearing midnight and they’ve been recording the bassline for _Modern Times_ for close to an hour now.

Freddie and Brian left as soon as they realized they weren’t needed and the producer followed shortly after, leaving only Roger, John, and the elephant in the room.

“Roger, I’m doing it exactly how you said.” John tries to keep the frustration out of his voice, but it’s a losing battle.

Even though he’s angry at Roger, John knows how much this song means to him being his one and only contribution to the album, so he’s doing his best not to let Roger’s nit-picking wear him down.

“Something’s still off,” Roger says.

“Freddie and Brian will be pissed that you’re using this much tape.”

“They can get over it,” Roger says before he signals John to go again.

John rolls his eyes when Roger’s drums come through his headphones but dutifully begins plucking out his bassline. He’s halfway through when the drums cut out again and John scrunches up his face and squeezes on the neck of his bass.

“What is it now?” John asks as calmly as he can muster.

“I’m coming in.”

Roger turns off the mic and John gets his headphones onto their stand just as Roger throws open the door to the recording booth.

“I think I’ve figured it out,” Roger says. “Forgive me, I know you’ll hate this.”

John is about to ask Roger what he means when Roger moves John’s hand off of the neck of his bass and presses his own fingers down onto the frets.

John nods and bites back a smile at the preemptive apology. Roger knows him too well, though he figures all musicians probably hate when someone else touches their instrument.

“It’s too high and the syncopation bit is weird - that’s my fault,” Roger explains. “Play the line again, but this time just follow the same beat as the drum.”

Roger starts patting the familiar drum beat on his chest with his free hand and counting it out under his breath. John listens to it for a couple rounds before he gives Roger a nod and dips his head down to pluck out the bass line.

The line is fast and hard, very much Roger’s style, and it’s only made more difficult by the fact that Roger is standing very close. His raspy voice drifts close to John’s ear as he continues to count out the rhythm.

John tries to ignore the way Roger’s hand moves over the fretboard as he experiments with different chords for John to play. John focuses on what his own hand is doing and hopes he doesn’t stutter over a line. He manages to zone in so well that he doesn’t even notice when Roger stops counting.

Once the song is over, John looks up and Roger is much closer than he was before. His eyes have the same look as they did last night: full of fear and longing as they travel all over John’s face.

John feels his cheeks flush under the stare. He tries to swallow, but his mouth feels impossibly dry.

Once he finally finds his words, John asks the real question that’s been nagging at his mind for far longer than just last night.

“Roger, what are we doing?”

John’s voice snaps Roger out of his trance and he jumps back. He’s been caught doing the very thing he wants to avoid, and he doesn’t even have the alcohol to hide behind this time. He blinks a few times and plasters on his best smile.

“What do you mean?” Roger asks as innocently as he can, though his heart is racing.

“Seriously. What is this?” John wraps his arms around his bass as if it’s a shield. “Talk to me honestly.”

“What are you on about?” Roger tries to laugh, though it comes out sounding as hollow and forced as it feels.

“Are you joking?” John snaps.

“Honestly, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Roger deflects again and flicks his hair out of his eyes.

John stares at him in disbelief and Roger averts his gaze, unable to meet John’s eyes. An impossibly long silence descends over them and Roger almost shrinks underneath the weight.

“I can’t do this anymore, Rog,” John finally says in the most defeated voice Roger has ever heard. “I can’t go on pretending that everything’s fine when it’s not.”

Roger stands paralyzed, terrified at this turn in the conversation. He finally looks up at John.

“Deaks, everything _is_ fine--”

“No, you don’t understand!” John interrupts, his raised voice makes Roger flinch.

“I’m hopeless for you, Roger. I know it’s obvious enough; you said as much yourself last night.”

His words are a punch to the gut. There’s no cruelty or spite behind them, just pure pain. Hot tears sting Roger’s eyes and he blinks them back.

“John, I...” 

_‘I’ what?_ _I’m sorry. I want you. I want to do this. I can’t do this. I’m scared._

Roger tries to go on, but he can’t get the words out. He doesn’t even know what he wants to say because it’s all still so confusing. Whatever he might say will be the wrong thing, though his tower is already crumbling down.

“Right.” John’s shoulders slump and he steps back, taking the bass from around his neck and unplugging it.

Roger watches as he turns around and packs his bass away. It’s only when he stands up that Roger realizes John is planning to leave.

He can’t let him leave.

Roger jumps forward and grabs John’s wrist, pulling him back. “Don’t go. Please.”

Roger captures John’s face between his hands and presses his forehead against the other’s as if that is enough to transmit all of his feelings without saying a word. Their long hair falls into a curtain between them to block out the harsh studio light and wrap them in their own little world.

The sting of tears threatens to turn into a sob and Roger barely chokes out, “Please, John.”

John’s breath catches, tears forming in his own eyes.

All Roger needs to do is say it. Confirm that what’s been boiling between them isn’t all in John’s head, that the pull he feels could possibly be mutual.

He can hear Roger’s breath hitch, feel the air Roger expels against his own lips. He lets the silence stretch between them, lets Roger hold onto him for dear life while he silently begs for Roger to just say that John isn’t alone.

But he can't even give him that.

With their heads still together, John whispers, “I can’t keep guessing at what you want, Roger. It hurts too much.”

John gently puts his hands around Roger’s wrists and pulls them away from his face.

Roger looks at John, utterly heartbroken.

He grabs John’s hands and tries once more to say something, but all he can get out is another pathetic, “Please.”

“Roger.” John never reaches more than a whisper. “Please let me go.”

Roger doesn’t move. He can’t.

He knows he can’t keep leading John on, he can’t make him wait for some mythical day when he might finally grow a pair and confess his feelings; but Roger is selfish, and buried deep in his subconscious, he knows he’ll never truly be able to let John go, no matter what happens.

John finally extracts himself from Roger’s grip and grabs his coat and bass before heading to the door.

John’s voice is barely audible when he says, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He closes the door as he leaves and Roger stands alone. The tears that so righteously held themselves back finally spill forth, hot on Roger’s cheeks.

“Fuck!” Roger screams as he pulls down hard on the ride cymbal next to him. The crash as it hits the floor is enough to pull him back down to earth, and he collapses down onto the risers.

The crushing weight of what just happened constricts Roger’s lungs and he clutches at his chest, struggling to breathe. He does his best to calm down, stuff it all deep inside, cover it up for good, but it’s no use.

Roger blinks up at the ceiling. The overhead lights seem to converge into a spotlight on Roger, doomed to perform his misery in a one-man show for an audience of none. An invisible scene partner comes out of the shadows and speaks a single line.

_You just made the biggest mistake of your life._

Roger makes one more determined attempt to stop his crying before he buries his face in between his knees and lets himself sob like a child for the first time in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sad boy hours :(


	10. Deacon John

“How was that?”

Roger snaps out of space. Across the couch, Brian is looking at him expectantly.

“Yeah. Yeah, it was good,” Roger says.

Brain leans his guitar against the back of the couch in the empty space between them and settles against the armrest.

“Mate, you weren’t listening.”

_“You’re not listening to me, Roger!” John exclaimed as he balled up his jumper and threw it into the open suitcase on his bed. “How do you expect us to go back to ‘normal’? What is that for us, anyway?_

_“Cause at least on my end, ‘normal’ is torture. ‘Normal’ is spending the last year following you around like a stupid little puppy dog thinking maybe, just maybe, it’s not all in my head; maybe I’m not overnanalyzing every little glance or flirty remark or your jealousy over the girls who talk to me - and don’t think I haven’t noticed that.”_

_“I’m sorry for… for confusing you like that,” Roger said, shifting his weight on his foot and feeling very exposed in the middle of John’s small flat._

_The conversation was going about as well as Roger could expect. After an awful few days at the recording studio full of stilted exchanges and hurried exits, Roger swung by John’s flat to try and clear the air; and well..._

_“‘I’m sorry for confusing you.’” Even John’s laugh dripped with contempt when he threw Roger’s words back in his face._

_“Jesus, man, what the fuck do you want me to say?” Roger practically screamed, his frustration rising high._

“Yes, I was!” Roger argues. “It was good, I think you should show it to the others.”

Brian just hums thoughtfully in response and Roger averts his gaze from the obvious scrutiny.

“We’re back in the studio tomorrow night,” Brian says, almost as if he’s testing the waters.

“I know.” Roger keeps his answer short. He knows where Brian is headed with this and he doesn’t like it.

Between his piss-poor attempts at hiding his mood, the tension in the studio, and John’s radio silence the past week - even on Christmas day, the fact that something happened between Roger and John is humiliatingly obvious.

“You ready?” Brian asks

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

_“You’re never gonna be ready, are you? Maybe this is unfair of me. I shouldn’t expect…” John trailed off with whatever he was about to say and turned back to his suitcase, busying himself with his packing._

“John’s coming back in time to join us,” Brian asks, too gently for Roger’s liking.

“Okay?” Roger snaps.

“Freddie called his mum’s the other night while I was over,” Brian says as if to clarify his statement. “Practically reprimanded the lad for taking off and scaring him half to death. Said he thought John was dead in a ditch somewhere.”

Brian laughs a little, likely in an attempt to ease Roger’s rising temper, but Roger doesn’t humor him.

“He’s a grown adult,” Roger spits out.

“Try telling Fred that.”

_“Were you even going to tell us that you were leaving?” Roger asked, using a sarcastic edge to cover up the hurt behind his voice._

_“I’m only going home for Christmas.” John said as he zipped his suitcase. “The studio’s closed for the week anyway.”_

_“Still,” was all Roger could say._

_“I’m a grown adult,” John said as he flicked his hair out of his face in a move he clearly learned from Roger. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”_

_John threw the words like a poison dart and they hit their target harder than John would ever know._

_Maybe it wasn’t right, but in that moment, Roger hated John._

_He hated John for walking into that audition room. He hated John for quietly making himself such an important part of Roger’s life. He hated John for blowing up his entire sense of self right in his face. He hated John for being everything he could want in another person. But most of all, he hated John for abandoning him._

“What’s happened?” Brian finally asks.

“What are you talking about?” Roger grabs a magazine off the side table - some fashion thing that Mary must have left behind - and starts flicking through it in an attempt to end the conversation.

“Roger, don’t insult me,” Brian says. “You two are attached at the hip and then overnight you hardly speak two words to each other.”

“Funny that,” Roger says without looking up from the page he’s pretending to read.

“Seriously, Rog,” Brian says. 

“We’re getting our work done, yeah?” Roger throws the magazine onto the coffee table. “The album is coming along and our playing is still good. So what’s it matter to you?”

Roger’s outburst hangs in the air as Brian shifts on the couch to fully face Roger.

“I’m not asking you as a bandmate. I’m asking you as your friend,” Brian says simply, without any fanfare behind his words, and it disarms Roger for a moment.

“We got in a fight,” Roger says, eyes cast down at his hands.

_“Listen, Roger. I can’t guess at what you’re thinking or feeling or what you want from me. I’ve been doing that since the day I met you, and…”_

_The blush started to rise in John’s cheeks and he averted his gaze from Roger’s eyes. He leaned one leg against his bed and began picking at a piece of dry skin around his thumb nail._

_“I’ve already laid everything out on the line for you,” John said quietly. “It’s humiliating, but there it is. Now you know I’m the wretched queer kid who has a crush on his supposedly straight bandmate--”_

_“‘Supposedly straight’?” Roger interrupted; he could feel his defenses rising up, latching on to the wrong thing. He knew nothing good would come of it, but he couldn’t stop it. “Who the hell are you to tell me what I am and am not.”_

_To Roger’s surprise, John didn’t react with anger, though to be fair that was typically more Roger’s purview, not John’s. Instead, John looked at him with a strange mixture of knowing and guilt._

_“You’re right, who am I,” John said softly, almost as if he was apologizing._

_Roger dropped his shoulders and looked at the floor. The air hung heavy between them as neither knew what to say._

“Do you want to tell me about it?” Brian asks.

“No,” Roger whispers, unable to meet Brian’s eye. “No, I really don’t.”

_“I have to get to the train station,” John spoke up. “I’m cutting it close.”_

_“You’re really leaving?” Roger winced at how pathetic the question sounded._

_“I’m so sorry,” John said softly._

_John opened the door of his flat and Roger slowly walked out. He should have turned around, kissed him, dropped to his knees and begged him not to go, but he didn’t do any of those things._

_Twice. Twice, he let John slip through his fingers. Twice, John put himself out on a limb for him and Roger failed him._

_He’d never felt more like a coward in his entire life._

_Roger was going to keep walking, but John’s voice stopped him._

_“Maybe… Maybe one day we can go back to normal, but not today.”_

_Roger didn’t turn around but gave a short nod. He heard the door close and dug his fingernails into the palm of his hand to keep calm as he forced his legs to walk out of the building._

“Well, I won’t press, but… I’m here, you know,” Brian says.

“I know.” Roger grabs the magazine off the table again and flips to a random page and stares at it blankly, wishing more than anything that there was a way to escape the empty feeling inside his chest.

***

The freezing wind whips around John as he sits on the train platform. The raging anxiety inside of him, which lessened to a dull roar while he was at home, burns bright again as time ticks dutifully on and the prospect of facing Roger becomes a sure reality.

He reaches in his coat pocket and pulls out his smokes - the first pack he’s ever bought himself after always bumming off Roger. The thought makes his stomach clench and he quickly pulls out a cigarette and slips the pack into his pocket, out of sight. He strikes a match and cups his hand over the flame as a particularly strong gust of wind threatens to blow it out.

“Oi!” His sister’s voice makes him practically jump out of his seat. “What’s that?”

_“What’s that?” Roger almost sounded nervous._

_“I said, no, Roger. We can’t go back to normal,” John said, finding his voice._

_His hands were shaking as he folded up one of his jumpers; funnily enough, it was one he had swiped from Roger’s closet around the same time last year._

_John had planned on slipping off to Liecester as soon as he heard they were off for the week. He needed the time away. He needed to clear his head and figure out how to stuff closed the can of worms he ripped open._

_He was almost in the clear until the one person he was trying to avoid showed up at his door._

John waves out the match and takes a drag from his cigarette.

“Don’t tell mum,” John says simply as Julie sits next to him and hands him the small paper cup of tea she fetched for him.

“Only if you give me one,” Julie says.

John snorts at that. “No.”

“And why not?” she challenges. John chuckles when she looks genuinely offended.

_“And why not?” Roger asked. John huffed a humorless laugh when Roger had the audacity to look offended._

_“After everything, you’re seriously asking me that?” John asked with his arms folded over his chest._

_“But, John, we’re… we’re good as mates, yeah?”_

_John rolled his eyes and turned back to his packing. He couldn’t look at Roger while he stood there and broke his heart for what seemed like the millionth time in less than a week._

_“Roger, I can’t--” John tried to say, but Roger began speaking over him._

_“And I know I made a stupid, drunken mistake coming over here the other night...”_

_“Drunken mistake, sure,” John mumbled under his breath, but Roger kept on going like he didn’t hear it._

_“But that doesn’t have to matter, right? It was good how we were.”_

_John grabbed another jumper and tried to fold it, but his focus was slipping. “No, it--”_

_“And it was easy how we were! I know when people get close feelings get all jostled around, and that’s normal...”_

_John could feel his frustration rising with each passing second. It was one thing for Roger to deny his own feelings, it was another thing entirely for him to try and deny John’s feelings. “It’s not--”_

_“But we can just go back, yeah? Forget it all happened.”_

_With that, John snapped._

_“You’re not listening to me, Roger!” John exclaimed as he balled up his jumper and threw it into the suitcase._

“You’re my baby sister,” John replies.

“You’re boring,” Julie huffs and huddles over her cup of tea.

“I’m in a rock band.” John takes a long drag off of his cigarette just because he knows it’ll annoy her. “Can’t be boring.”

“I’m in a rock band,” Julie mimics childishly and for a second it takes John back to when they were kids - when Julie was four and he was nine and the worst thing that could happen to them was having the other steal their toys.

John shakes his head of the thought and playfully pokes Julie in her side. “Did you come down to the station with me just to make fun of me?”

“No, I came down to see you off, you nit.” Julie pokes him back before returning to her hunched over position.

“And because mum wasn’t feeling well enough,” she tacks on quietly.

“When is she ever?” John mumbles, hating the bitterness that seeps through his voice.

Julie doesn’t need to reply.

_“Jesus, man, what the fuck do you want me to say?” Roger practically screamed._

_John didn’t reply. Instead, he just looked at Roger; really looked at him for what felt like the first time._

_Roger stood in the middle of John’s room, arms around his torso as if he were hugging himself. His cheeks were slightly pink and his eyes were wild with thinly-veiled rage._

_Then it all clicked._

_It wasn’t rage. It was fear. Underneath Roger’s anger, John saw fear - he saw himself. He saw the scared kid who just figured out he wanted to kiss boys like in those romance movies mum always watched, the kid who was told people like him were disgusting, the kid who would give anything to be “normal”._

_John dropped his shoulders as the crushing weight of guilt descended upon them._

_“You’re never gonna be ready, are you? Maybe this is unfair of me. I shouldn’t expect…” John couldn’t finish his sentence. He turned back to his suitcase, busying himself with his packing._

They let the bustle of the train station wash over their silence while John smokes down his cigarette and watches the people pass by. They’re all so trapped in their own little world - the mum wrangling her kids while her husband does nothing to help, the businessman all but running to his platform with his coat billowing out behind him, the group of friends laughing loudly at something one of them said. If he traded his problems for theirs, would he be better or worse?

Better, probably.

He reckons none of them have just confessed their feelings to their best friend only to be jerked around and left with more questions than answers. None of them have to figure out how to be in a band with someone who ripped their heart in two. None of them have spent the past week trying to work up the courage to come out to their sister, only to chicken out every time.

John drops his cigarette on the ground and stubs it out with his foot before he looks towards Julie. She has a pensive look on her face - the same one John gets when he’s lost in his own little world, the same one he’s probably wearing right now.

He wants to tell her everything. He wants to spill his guts and tell her all about his feelings for Roger and how bad it hurts, wants to hear her shitty teenaged-girl advice and commiserate over broken hearts and dramatic, unrequited feelings, but he can’t even bring himself to tell her that he likes men.

_“It’s humiliating, but there it is. Now you know I’m the wretched queer kid who has a crush on his supposedly straight bandmate--”_

_“‘Supposedly straight’?” Roger interrupted and John flinched. John’s own hurt got the better of him and he couldn’t resist the dig and he regretted it immediately._

_“Who the hell are you to tell me what I am and am not.”_

_“You’re right, who am I,” John said softly, all of the fight gone from him._

“How’s it been, by the way,” John asks, causing Julie to look up from her cup. “I never got to ask you that while I was here.”

Julie shrugs. “Just kinda quiet.”

“Isn’t it always?” John replies. There’s a reason John took an interest in music in the first place - it drowned out the impossibly loud silence that fell over his household years ago and never left.

John glances up at the clock. Five more minutes until his train arrives. He can get it out in five minutes, right? Just say ‘Hey, Jules, I like blokes, not women’ and that’ll be that. Easy.

_John glances at the clock hanging above his bed. He has about four hours until his train leaves._

_“I have to get to the train station. I’m cutting it close,” John lied._

_“You’re really leaving?” Roger sounded devastated._

_“I’m so sorry,” John said, willing Roger to understand why he needed to get away._

_John opened the door of his flat and kept his eyes on the ground as Roger walked out. He resisted the urge to pull Roger into a hug, tell him they could go back to normal, and put on a happy face and play pretend._

_He knew that fear in Roger’s heart, knew it all too well. If he was a better person, he might have tried to find the words to reassure Roger; but as it stood, John was too shattered himself to come up with anything meaningful._

_Instead, he said, “Maybe… Maybe one day we can go back to normal, but not today.”_

_Roger gave a short nod and John closed the door before he said anything stupid. He slumped against the door and knocked his head back, looking up at the ceiling, and cursed himself for the mess he made._

“Hey, Jules, I have to tell you something,” John says before he can stop himself.

“Yeah?” Julie picks her head up.

John shouldn’t have looked at her; the second their eyes meet, he loses all of his nerve.

“Nevermind,” John mumbles, his fingers already itch to hold another cigarette. “It was nothing.”

“No, that’s not fair!” Julie exclaims with a little laugh. “You can’t leave me hanging like that.”

“I promise, it was boring.” John chuckles, trying to wave it off.

“Absolutely not, you have to tell me.”

“I was just gonna say…” John picks at the lip of his paper cup and searches his brain for anything to finish the last half of the sentence.

“I was just gonna say that I’m going to miss you,” he says; it’s a true statement at least.

If Julie knows that wasn’t his original thought, she’s kind enough to not let on. “We’re just a couple hours away, you know.”

“I know,” John says, bumping Julie with his shoulder.

***

John opens the door to his freezing flat and tosses his suitcase on the floor in front of his bed. He’s going to be late to the studio, but he can’t bring himself to move any faster as he peels off his travel clothes and puts on a fresh pair of jeans and a jumper.

After he pulls his boots back on, he sits in the rapidly darkening room as the sun sets and breathes through the bout of nerves coming on.

John doesn’t know what he will do tonight, how he will react once he walks through those studio doors and sees Roger’s face. It’s the uncertainty that bothers him the most. The push-pull Roger is putting him through should be listed as a mideval torture device.

There’s only one thing he knows for certain: he’s so damn tired. He’s tired of getting glimmers of hope only for them to be snached away, he’s tired of begging for a reprieve, of opening himself up only to be shut out.

John tries to put the thoughts aside and hauls himself off of the sofa, grabbing his bass on the way out of the flat.

As he locks his door behind him and sets down the hall, his nerves fizz so bad he fears he just might burst.

***

Roger sits behind the drum kit and taps out a jittery rhythm while Brian and Freddie bicker about something in the control room.

After a week of pointed questions from Freddie and pitying looks from Brian and absolutely nothing from John, Roger has become a ticking time bomb.

He has absolutely no clue what he will do when John walks through the door. With each passing minute, his nerves get the better of him; he might combust if not for the drum kit to take it out on. 

There’s only one thing he knows for certain: he’s so bloody tired. He’s so tired of fighting the inevitable, denying the obvious, and depriving himself of someone that will make him happy. Though it looks like that someone might want nothing to do with him anymore.

Roger stuffs down the thought and bangs a little harder on the drums, not giving a damn if he’s annoying Freddie and Brian - it’s for all their sakes.

***

“Mr. Deacon!” John hears someone call behind him. “I’m glad I caught you.”

John turns around to see one of the Trident employees who are always buzzing around the studio.

“Yes, sir?” John asks as he approaches the portly man.

“Good news. The mockup of the album jacket came through today,” the man says, holding out a purpley cardboard sleeve. “Would you mind bringing it to the others? I’m wretchedly late getting home.”

“Oh,” John says, taking the sleeve from him. “Yeah, of course. Thank you.”

“Good lad,” the man says before turning back into his office to gather his things.

John begins to walk down the hall and looks over the cover. For a moment, his troubles melt away because he is holding physical evidence of their efforts in his hands. It’s real. It’s actually happening and it’s actually real.

He chuckles at the photo of Freddie on the front which was no doubt picked out by him. He flips the cover and glosses over the words on the back until one thing makes him stop in his tracks.

_Deacon John._

That must be a mistake. John flips the cover over before flipping it back, as if his name will appear correctly the second time it is revealed. Once his brain registers that the sleeve does in fact say ‘Deacon John’, John turns back around to see the studio employee locking his office door.

“Excuse me, sir!” John calls, hustling to catch the man before he leaves.

“What is it?” the man asks.

“I think there’s been a misprint,” John says as politely as he can. “I don’t know if I’m supposed to tell you that, or…”

“There’s no misprint,” the man says.

His reply throws John off a bit. He’s not very good at challenging adults, his ingrained northern politeness gives him the tendency to bow down before any sort of authority.

“Yes, there is,” John says, his voice a little shaky. “Look, right here. It says ‘Deacon John’, but it’s supposed to say ‘John Deacon’.”

“It says ‘Deacon John’ because that’s what you put.” Agitation is clear in the man’s voice, but John’s confusion and his already frazzled nerves spurs him on.

“I didn’t put ‘Deacon John’. That’s not my name.”

“It’s what you put on the information sheet--”

“I remember the sheet,” John interrupts the man, growing bolder. “And I remember what I put.”

“Look, kid,” the man says, “I got the _approved_ information sheet, I passed it on to the art department, and they put on that cover what you put on that sheet. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

“Who gave you the approved copy?” John asks.

“That Mercury fellow dropped it by my office. Goodnight, Mr. Deacon,” the man says and walks away, ending the conversation.

Freddie. Freddie changed his name behind his back.

Between everything going on the past couple of weeks, the torrential downpour of shit event after shit event, this… this flippant betrayal by one of his closest friends is what finally breaks him.

John grips the handle of his guitar case and turns on his heel. He walks down the dim hallway, past closed office doors, his heels clicking on the linoleum. As he gets closer to their studio, he hears the muffled voices of his bandmates inside. He slips the sleeve mockup under his arm and opens the door.

Freddie and Brian are arguing over something at the control desk while the producer looks helplessly on and Roger’s drums can be heard through the open door leading to the recording booth.

Before any of them have a chance to notice him, John takes the sleeve from under his arm and holds it up.

“What’s this?” John asks.

The sound of John’s voice freezes Roger in his tracks. He looks through the glass to see John standing in the doorway to the studio, half-hidden from Roger’s vantage point.

“Well, it looks like the album cover, my dear!” Freddie’s voice twinkles with delight, seemingly unaware of - or at least, attempting to ignore - John’s bristling mood.

Tentatively, Roger gets up from behind his kit and leans in the doorway between the control room and the recording booth. He can see John fully now - still bundled in his coat with his bass at his feet. His face is totally unreadable, but it doesn’t take an idiot to figure out that something is boiling underneath the calm exterior.

Even though he is still trying to figure out what the hell is going on, Roger’s heart skips a beat at the sight.

“Not that, Freddie,” John says, trying his best to keep his tone even.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Roger leaning against the doorframe, his eyes boring holes into John’s skin.

“‘Deacon John’?” John asks, holding his finger against the offending name. “You did this?”

“Oh,” Freddie says. “Darling, I wanted to talk to you about it, but you took off before I had the chance.”

Freddie moves to close the space between him and John, but John sidesteps him and walks to the mixing table, pointedly avoiding Roger’s gaze. The producer makes himself busy with an empty notebook and Brian looks astoundingly confused. John might feel bad about creating the awkward situation if he had any energy left to spare.

“So you changed it behind my back?” John asks.

“Well…” Freddie trails off like he’s trying to think of an excuse, but John doesn’t let him off the hook.

“Well?” John challenges.

“Yes,” Freddie says after a moment. “I did.”

“Why would you do that?” John asks genuinely.

“I was going to ask you--”

“No, you weren’t,” John interrupts. “You were going to _tell_ me after the fact. Freddie, I don’t know how you did it, but I want it changed back--”

“Unbelievable,” Roger mutters before he has a chance to stop himself.

Call him petty, but Roger is pretty wounded that John is picking a fight with Freddie, seemingly to find any reason to avoid Roger even when he’s less than two feet away.

“Excuse me?” John turns his head and looks at Roger. 

Roger can see Brian shoot him a warning look over John’s head, but Roger chooses to ignore it. He’s itching for a fight. At least that way, John will be forced to acknowledge his existence.

“I said you’re unbelievable,” Roger taunts a little bit louder. “Not a minute through the door and you’re already throwing a bitchfit.”

John scoffs and turns his body to fully face Roger.

Roger doesn’t have time to relish in the fact that he caught John’s full attention, though.

“Oh, you of all people have something to say about tantrums? You’re one to talk, _mate_.” John emphasizes the last word, firing the metaphorical first shot.

They’re walking into dangerous territory getting into this in front of the others, but Roger refuses to be the first to back down.

“Yeah, I am.” Roger smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not the one who disappeared for a week only to show up making diva demands.”

“I didn’t disappear, Roger,” John says like he’s had to explain it a million times, “I had to--”

“Had to what?” Roger interrupts.

“Fuck, does it matter?” John finally raises his voice.

“Yes!” Roger yells.

John looks in his eyes and Roger’s entire world stops. He sees a crack in John’s facade as John reveals a sliver of vulnerability. It only lasts for a split second, but Roger doesn’t miss it - he couldn’t if he tried.

John seems to notice everyone else’s confusion at his and Roger’s derailed argument because he places the record sleeve on the mixing desk and presses his pointer finger right on the center, bringing attention back to his original point. He looks down at the mockup and addresses it softly.

“If I put a name on something I create, it’s going to be the one my father gave me.”

Oh.

That shuts Roger right the hell up. It’s no secret that John’s father is a sensitive subject, and as upset as Roger is, he knows when it’s time to back off.

Freddie, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to get the hint. Whether it be a severe lapse in judgement or a horribly misguided attempt at diffusing the situation, the next words out of his mouth will go down in history - at least in Roger’s mind - as the stupidest thing he’s ever said.

“Darling, it is the name he gave you,” Freddie says gently, “We just switched around is all.”

John snaps his head up and looks directly into Freddie’s eyes.

“And what gave you the right?” His words practically come out as a hiss, something Roger has never heard from John before.

“Love, you must understand.” Freddie approaches John as if he’s explaining something to a child. “We are a glam rock band. We just needed to make you sound a touch more glamorous, mysterious, more interesting. It’s only on paper, you see.”

Freddie’s words seem to touch a nerve none of them knew John had because all of the air in the room gets sucked into a vacuum as soon as they leave his mouth.

“Interesting?”John asks, his voice low and dangerous. “You wanted interesting? I’m so sorry, Freddie, I must have misunderstood. Because the last time I checked, you liked having someone who blends in the background, someone who couldn’t possibly upstage the great Freddie Mercury.”

“John—“

“No.” John cuts Freddie off. “If you want someone more _interesting_ , you’ll have to find yourself a new bassist.”

John doesn’t storm out of the room and he doesn’t slam any doors; he simply picks up his guitar case and walks out, which in Roger’s opinion, is much scarier than any sort of dramatic exit.

They all sit in shocked silence. The only noise in the room is the sound of John’s platforms slowly fading away as he gets further down the hall.

Freddie recovers first. He tries to break for the door and call after John, but Brian catches him by the arm and stops him.

“Give him a minute to cool down,” Brian says.

“But he’s--”

“He’s not quitting the band,” Brian assures, ever the reasonable one.

“Fuck.” Freddie shakes himself loose of Brian's grip and dramatically plunks down onto the couch. “Fucking fuck fuck.”

Roger ignores both of them and grabs his coat off the wall to chase after John. He is halfway to the door when Brian notices him.

“Rog, what did I just--”

“Don’t try and stop me, mate,” Roger says without sparing a glance at any of them.

He exits into the hall and slams the door behind him.

***

Roger gently opens the door to the alley behind the studio, drawing his coat tighter around his neck. He looks around until he spots John sitting on the curb near Roger’s van with his bass on the ground beside him.

He looks impossibly small with his knees drawn to his chest and the heels of his hands pressed to his eyes. His hair falls down in a curtain, obscuring John’s face from view, but the shake in his shoulders tells Roger all he needs to know.

“Shit,” Roger says to himself.

He gathers every ounce of courage he has and walks over to sit down quietly next to John. He keeps his hands in his coat pocket in a fight against the urge to place one on John’s back.

“John? You alright there, mate?” Roger asks, unsure of what else to say.

John doesn’t acknowledge him, but he doesn’t move away either, so Roger tries again.

“Listen, if this is about the name, I’m sure we can change it--”

John suddenly lifts his head and glares at Roger like he’s the stupidest person he’s ever seen. His eyes are glassy with tears he isn’t attempting to hide anymore and it all makes Roger’s voice die in his throat.

“I’m not crying about the name,” John says, all of the bite gone from his voice.

“Then tell me what’s wrong,” Roger says, though he already knows the answer.

John searches Roger’s eyes as if he’s deciding whether to let him in again or shut him out once and for all. Roger tries to keep his expression open and calm, though he’s sure he looks like a deer in the headlights under John’s scrutiny.

John doesn’t say anything, and instead wraps his arms around his knees and looks out at the building across the alley. Roger drops his head and is about to get up, resigned to the fact that he’s hurt John too badly to ever come back from it, when John finally speaks up.

“Roger, I feel like I’m going crazy,” John says, just barely audible, as if he’s scared his words will reach Roger’s ears.

Nothing could have prepared Roger for that.

“Deaky…” Roger’s voice cracks.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” John says quickly. “Maybe I’m wrong about all this. Maybe I’m just pathetic and I need to accept the fact that you’ll never be ready for… for whatever this is.” John gestures between the two of them.

“But, please, Rog,” John begs, “Please, just tell me it’s all one-sided, tell me you don’t want this, tell me it’s never going to happen - something. I can’t live in this limbo anymore. If it needs to end here, then rip off the bandage, I can take it. Just _stop_ stringing me along. Please.”

John looks at Roger with eyes so full of desperation that Roger can’t help but shrink knowing that he’s the cause. Roger balls his fists up in his pockets and fights every instinct that tells him to run away, to ignore this like he ignores every other problem.

He’s just been given one more chance to make things right, and he can’t throw it away. Even if he never opens up to anyone ever again, even if he drops the curtain on his feelings and shuns them away like a bastard child, he needs to be open now. If not for himself, then for John.

It’s only the thought of John, the guilt that he feels for the way he’s hurt his friend over and over again that gives him the strength to speak.

“Listen, Deaky, you have to understand I’m... I’m bloody terrified, okay?” Roger says softly.

When John doesn’t say anything, Roger takes it as permission to keep talking.

“You know, all my life I thought... I thought I was a certain way. And then--” Roger stumbles his way through his impromptu confession, unsure of what to say or where to go. “And then you kissed me. You kissed me, and-- and my first thought was...”

Roger puts his forehead to his hands and looks down at the dead, damp leaves collected against the curb below him. He’s not sure if he’ll be able to continue if he has to look at his best friend’s face while he spills his guts out for him.

“You kissed me,” Roger starts over, steeling himself. “And my first thought was that I wanted to do it again.

“And I didn’t know how to handle it. I’ve never felt like this for-- for anyone before. Not just like attraction and all that, but… you know.

“It’s like everything in my life up to that point was a complete and utter lie. So I tried to deny it, and I spent a whole bloody year hurting you in the process.” Roger’s voice cracks and he blinks back the tears forming in his eyes. “God, I can’t believe how much I hurt you.”

Roger risks a look at John. When he picks his head up, he finds John looking at him with more compassion than he will ever believe he deserves and it breaks his heart in two.

“You’re my best friend in the world, John,” Roger says quietly. “Let’s say this were… Let’s say this were to happen. Then what? What if I mess it all up and drive you away?

“And we’ve got the band to think about, too. We just got picked up. You know what would happen if something like this were to get out. We’d be ruined. The label would drop us and we’d be done. Finished.

“I know I’m selfish, I know I’ve been stringing you along; and trust me, I hate myself for it, too. But, you have to understand, I’m so, so scared.”

“And you think I’m not?” John whispers.

“I know, Deaks.”

In the silence that follows, Roger stares at the cobbled road, worried that his big confession may have been too little, too late.

“You’re not alone in this, Roger,” John finally says.

_You’re not alone in this._

_You’re not alone._

The words course through Roger’s mind, down his spine, and out his fingertips. He didn’t even know how much he needed to hear them until they escaped John’s lips. Three words; perhaps even more precious than their famous cousin, ‘ _I love you.’_

John stares ahead, hands clasped with his arms resting on his knees. Roger is unsure of what to do. He wants to comfort John, he wants to be comforted, but he doesn’t know what is right in this situation.

Gingerly, Roger reaches out and touches John’s hands, inviting him to grab it. For a moment, John does nothing and Roger panics, wondering if he read everything wrong. But before Roger can pull away, John unclasps his hands and grabs Roger’s.

The sounds of distant traffic drift in from the main road. A cold wind blows through the alleyway, as if the universe is encouraging Roger to huddle closer to John, so he does. 

“I’m so sorry, John.” Roger’s voice comes out in a small whisper. “I don’t know why I couldn’t just admit it. I’ve liked you for a long time. I promise you it was never one-sided.”

John doesn’t reply. He simply brings Roger’s hand to his lips before pressing it against his forehead.

Roger turns his head and looks at John. His brown hair - looking more auburn in the amber street light - frames his face as he leans against Roger’s hand. His eyelashes cast soft shadows against his tear-stained cheeks, and his high cheekbones and the straight line of his nose gives his profile the look of a Grecian statue. In short, he looks absolutely ethereal; like something that should be preserved in a painting and locked in the Louvre for safekeeping. No more stolen, guilty glances; for once, Roger allows himself to really appreciate the beauty of the man in front of him.

Roger’s heart beats faster when he realizes what he wants to do next, but he doesn’t stop himself when his free hand reaches out to gently touch John’s chin.

“John,” Roger whispers, coaxing him to look up.

When he does, Roger tucks John’s hair behind his ear, his breath catching when John leans into it slightly. He moves his hand to John’s cheek and strokes his cheekbone with his thumb.

Roger leans in slowly and searches John’s wide eyes for any indication that he may not want this, gives him every opportunity to pull away. By the time he is close enough to feel John’s cold nose brush his, his heart pounds in his ears and drowns out every other sound around him.

John’s eyes flutter closed, but he doesn’t close the gap between them. Roger feels John give his hand a squeeze, so Roger squeezes back, closes his eyes, and finally takes the plunge.

John’s lips are as soft as Roger remembered and taste slightly of salt water. They are both tentative and unsure, like they are scared the other will close off again.

The angle is slightly awkward with their arms crossed in front of them, but that isn’t enough to pull Roger away. Instead, he threads his fingers through John’s and pulls their hands in between them, pressing in closer and trapping their desperate embrace between their bodies.

Roger knows it’s risky, doing this in a back alleyway where anyone can stumble upon them, including their bandmates, but right now, he can’t be arsed to care; not when the world is melting away and all that’s left is John.

John, his best friend. John, the man who tore off Roger’s mask. John, the man who is kissing him back.

Eventually, they need to come up for air, but they don’t stray far. Roger tangles his hand in John’s long hair and looks into his hazel eyes, so full of hope and trepidation. He rests his forehead against John’s and closes his eyes, running his fingers through John’s hair and feeling his warm breath against his lips.

For the first time in a long time, he feels safe.

Maybe that’s why he finds himself saying, “I want this, John. I… I want you.”

To Roger’s surprise, John lets out a little giggle, the first one Roger’s heard in weeks and he believes it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.

“You already know how I feel,” John says.

Roger feels a pang of guilt and says, “I’m sorry--”

John pulls away and shakes his head like he doesn’t need to hear it and untangles his hand from Roger’s. He cards his fingers through Roger’s hair and his hand comes to rest at the nape of his neck.

“Can I kiss you?” John asks, biting back a smile.

Roger nods his head. “Please.”

John smiles a little before he pulls Roger in for another kiss. The uncertainty and nervousness of the previous one melts away as they both give in to their aching need for the other.

Roger presses himself as close to John as he can get, bringing his hands to John’s cheeks, neck, hair, anywhere that he can feel and touch him, assuring himself that John won’t disappear out of his arms.

He feels John’s fingers tighten in his hair and it makes him gasp a little in surprise. John takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss and Roger allows himself to get swept away inside of it. He allows himself to feel every nerve light on fire, heating him up from the inside out, making the bitter cold of the outside world powerless to reach him.

Roger takes everything John gives him and pours out everything in return: all of his terror, desire, hope, and shame; every look that lasted a bit too long, all of his guilty late night wanks where John popped up in his mind’s eye, all of his jealousy and possessiveness; the good, the bad, and the ugly. He hands it all over to John like a sinner bearing it all before the altar.

A few tears slip from Roger’s eyes and freeze against his cheeks. He doesn’t know if they’re tears of happiness, relief, or guilt, but he doesn’t fight them anymore. When they finally break apart, he doesn’t stop the little gasp that escapes his lips either.

Roger opens his eyes and John reaches up to wipe the tears off his cheeks with a swipe of his thumbs. Roger gently closes his hand around John’s wrist and rests his head against John’s hand, feeling the warmth against his cheek.

And in that moment, in the dingy back alleyway next to his shitty old van with the freezing cold of the night seeping straight through to his bones, Roger can’t think of a place he’d rather be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit you guys, this chapter was a CHALLENGE to write! Honestly, the most difficult one yet. BUT I hope it was worth the wait and worth the read! Let me know what you thought! I'm already excited for the next chapter lol


	11. The Fire Escape Blues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies! This chapter is rated M-ish?? only for the last scene.

“I want this, John. I… I want you.”

The words shock a giggle out of John. Even in his wildest fantasies, he never imagined he would hear those words come out of Roger’s mouth. It’s almost too much. A part of him doesn’t want to let himself believe it, scared that Roger might rip it all away from him again.

“You already know how I feel,” John says. It’s the only sentence he can form right now.

“I’m sorry--”

John pulls away and shakes his head. Words can wait.

He lets go of Roger’s hand and runs his fingers through his hair. As they tangle in the soft blonde tresses, he’s taken back to that moment on the bus when that poor, unwitting couple brought forth all of John’s heartbreak and panic through the same simple gesture. 

If only he could go back and tell that terrified 19 year old that the boy he just kissed returned his feelings.

But none of that matters anymore because he’s here now.

“Can I kiss you?” John asks and another giggle threatens to spill forth with how juvenile the question sounds to John’s ears.

Without hesitation, Roger nods and whispers out, “Please.”

And, God, he _never_ thought he would hear _that_ come from Roger’s mouth. It’s all so surreal that John can’t help but smile as he pulls Roger in for another kiss.

As soon as their lips meet, Roger presses in close and his hands are everywhere. John can feel Roger’s thumbs swipe across his cheeks, his fingertips trail down his neck, his hands sweep the hair off his face. It all leaves John breathless, his head swimming. 

John tightens his grip on Roger’s hair, his only tether to keep from floating away. Roger gasps when he does, and John deepens the kiss. He falls into it, surrendering to the moment.

Though even still, even now with Roger’s tongue running across his bottom lip, there’s that horrid, tiny voice in the back of John’s mind telling him that this is all too good to be true. John wraps his arms around Roger’s neck and pulls him in closer; if the voice is right and this is really it, he is going to make damn sure this kiss will last him a lifetime.

But as Roger slips his tongue into John’s mouth and the hot breath from his nose grows ragged against John’s cheek, John can feel his unease slip away.

And when they finally break apart and John sees tears glittering against Roger’s cheeks, his walls completely crumble.

He doesn’t hesitate to wipe the tears away. Before he can remove his hand, Roger gently grabs John’s wrist and looks at him with so much warmth that John melts under his gaze.

Whether they sit like this for seconds, minutes, or hours, John doesn’t know, and it doesn’t matter. A part of him believes they could turn to ice in the harsh winter wind - frozen in time so he can stare into those blue eyes forever - and he would be all the happier for it.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t get a chance to test his theory.

The door to the alleyway scrapes open and John rips his hand away from Roger’s face and scrambles to his feet. Roger follows quickly after and walks towards the van with his back to the studio, hiding his tear-stained face just as Freddie and Brian make their way outside.

John’s stomach drops as soon as he sees Freddie. The entire day has been such an intense and confusing series of events that he doesn’t even know where to begin with working out what happened, so before his brain can connect to his mouth, he rushes forward with a litany of apologies on the tip of his tongue, ready to grovel for being such a prick in the studio, but Freddie shushes him and pulls him down into a hug.

“None of that, love,” Freddie says softly as he holds John’s head against his shoulder; the soft fur of his coat tickles John’s nose.

John wraps his arms around Freddie and accepts the embrace. So many emotions are swirling inside of his chest that he feels delirious and burnt out at the same time, sparking like an empty lighter. Without Freddie’s arms around him, John might just collapse to the ground.

“Could you two be a dear and pack up the van?” Freddie asks. “We’re calling it a night.”

John can hear Brian mumble a quick response followed by the sound of feet shuffling and the studio door being opened. Once the alleyway is quiet again, Freddie gently strokes John’s hair and kisses his cheek.

“John, my love, I am so sorry,” Freddie says into John’s hair.

John pulls away to look at Freddie’s face. “Freddie, it’s fi--”

“No, don’t tell me it’s fine, because it’s not,” Freddie says, holding John out by the arms.

John tries to speak again, but Freddie holds his hand up to quiet him. He takes a deep breath before continuing and struggles to maintain eye contact. Freddie has never been good at swallowing his pride, so John stays quiet and gives him the time he needs.

“What I did was disrespectful and careless, and I promise you, I will do everything in my power to fix it,” Freddie says. He gives John’s arm a squeeze before he adds, “I just hope I can earn your forgiveness.”

“You’re already forgiven, Freddie,” John rushes to say. “I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have barged in like that, making a scene and all. Yes, I don’t like the name, but I was already upset about something else entirely and I took it out on you--”

The door opens again and John looks over Freddie’s shoulder to see Roger carrying an amp and fumbling with his keys with Brian close behind, lugging his guitar case. Freddie turns around just in time to catch the shy smile Roger sends John’s way.

“I take it you two have worked it out, then?” Freddie asks quietly.

John freezes for a moment, feeling caught out. He’s not sure what to say, so he just nods his head and looks down at his hands.

“Good,” Freddie says, not pressing for any more information. “I couldn’t stand to have my twin terrors at odds.”

“Twin terrors?” John laughs. “Is that what you call us?”

“Yes, ever since you two threw peanuts in Brian’s hair,” Freddie says fondly.

John shrugs his shoulders and swallows another laugh. “We were bored.”

“Exactly,” Freddie says with a little shake of John’s arms. “Terrors, the both of you.”

“Oi! Are you lot going to help us?” Roger calls as he swings open the back door of his van.

“It’s two guitars, you drama queen, you’re fine,” Freddie yells over his shoulder.

Roger grumbles something, but Freddie chooses to ignore it. He pulls John into another hug and says, “I love you, my darling.”

“I love you, too,” John replies, squeezing Freddie just a bit tighter.

The sound of the van doors closing pulls John out of the embrace. He begrudgingly accepts Freddie’s pinch on his cheek before he lets Freddie walk ahead of him to the van.

Roger lingers at the back of the van and catches John’s hand as he walks by, making John’s heart flutter in his chest.

“Hey,” John almost whispers.

“Hey.” Roger smiles. “Listen; Freddie is staying at Mary’s tonight. Would you want to come over? I figured we probably need to... If you don’t want to, I understand. I can drop you off at your flat, no problem, but--”

“Okay,” John interrupts Roger’s babbling, perhaps a little too eagerly. “Okay, yeah.”

“Yeah?” Roger asks with a hopeful smile.

“Yeah,” John says, unable to keep the smile off of his own face.

Roger squeezes John’s hand before he lets go and they part to opposite sides of the van. 

***

The drive from the studio is filled with tension so thick Roger could swim through it. If the others notice it, they’re kind enough not to say anything.

They drop Brian off first and as they make the drive to Mary’s flat, Freddie rambles on about their New Year’s Eve plans while Roger nods along. Although he doesn’t take in much of what Freddie says, he’s thankful to have him filling in the silence. 

By the time they make it to Mary’s, Roger’s heart is pounding in his chest. He can barely mutter a goodbye when Freddie gathers his bag and hops out of the van.

Freddie slams the passenger door behind him and leaves John and Roger alone again. The only noise in the van is the quiet sound of the disk jockey on the radio and the heel of John’s platform as he taps out a nervous rhythm onto the floor.

“Deaks?” Roger asks after a moment. When he meets John’s eyes in the rearview mirror, he feels butterflies - actual butterflies - in his stomach. He hasn’t had fucking butterflies since his first girlfriend.

“Would you come up front and join me? Or am I your chauffeur for the night?” Roger jokes, trying not to give away how nervous he is.

“Oh,” John lets out a breathy laugh. “Yeah, of course. Sorry.”

John scrambles over the center console and plops himself down in the passenger seat and Roger can’t help but laugh at the ungraceful display.

“There were easier ways to do that, you know,” Roger says.

“Piss off.” John swats Roger’s arm, but when he faces the window, his smile is caught in the reflection.

A cheesy pop song plays softly through the speaker while Roger puts the van back into drive and pulls out into the street. When they stop at a red light, Roger steals what he hopes is a subtle glance at John. The colorful Christmas lights left up on the house next to them dance on John’s face in a cheerful rainbow. A bit of blue and green highlight his nose while red and purple paint across his chin, and--

“The light’s green,” John says.

Roger snaps his head forward and punches on the gas.

He hates the nervous energy in the air between them. It’s not normal for them, but then again, none of this is normal for them. Roger wishes he had something to say that would break the tension inside the van, but he poured out everything in that alleyway, leaving him dry. Instead, he turns up the radio and lets the music fill the space for him.

***

John closes the door behind him and switches on the floor lamp. He drifts towards the armchair and reaches in between the layers of his coat to fiddle with his arrow pendant while Roger takes off his coat and throws it haphazardly into his dark room.

He feels like a clueless teenager again, unsure of what to do or say, but from what he can tell, Roger isn’t much better off, which in a way is it’s own small comfort.

“Can I take your coat?” Roger’s voice breaks John from his thoughts.

“Oh, sorry.” John shakes his head as if it’ll rattle out his nerves and unbuttons his coat. He hands it to Roger and has to suppress a laugh when Roger throws it into his room with as little regard for it as his own.

“Do you want to come out on the fire escape for a smoke?” Roger asks once he closes his bedroom door. “I could really use one myself.”

“Don’t we need our coats for that?” John chuckles.

“No,” Roger says with a hint of a smile in his eyes.

“Roger, it’s freezing outside.”

“Do you trust me?” Roger asks, looking equal parts mischievous and frightened for John’s answer.

John rolls his eyes and curses the blush he knows is prominent in his cheeks.

“Obviously,” John mutters.

A look of relief passes across Roger’s face before it’s replaced by that patented cocky smile that John didn’t even realize he missed until it made its way back to Roger’s lips.

“Then go put the kettle on and don’t ask questions.” Roger winks and John chuckles as he heads towards the kitchen, happy to oblige.

John takes the kettle off of the stove and brings it to the sink to fill it with water. He watches curiously as Roger disappears into Freddie’s bedroom. He hears some rustling from the room when he faces the stove and strikes a match to light the burner.

When John turns back around to pick out the tea, he sees Roger exit Freddie’s room with an armful of blankets.

“Is that Freddie’s bedding?” John asks in disbelief.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Roger says as he dumps the pile in front of the bookcase.

“But--”

“No questions, remember?” Roger says, opening the window to the fire escape.

The cold air immediately rushes into the flat and John goes back to his task, leaving Roger to his mysteries. He picks out the tea bags and leaves them on the counter while he flits around the kitchen for the rest of the supplies.

John opens the cabinet to grab the tea cups, and he comes face to face with the two yellow mugs. He hasn’t seen them since the night he kissed Roger. His hand lingers over them for a moment before he pushes the mugs aside in favor of whatever lies behind them. He pulls out a white mug with the Big Ben printed on the side and a kitschy one with a cat tail for a handle. He decides to claim the cat-tail mug.

He glances over his shoulder and sees Roger half-hanging out the window laying Freddie’s comforter over the slatted metal floor of the fire escape. And because he’s only human, his glance turns into a gaze turns into an unabashed oogle as Roger leans up on his tiptoes to reach the far corners of the fire escape, perking up his bum in the best way possible. 

The scream of the kettle almost gives John a heart attack and he turns back around to take it off the heat. He presses his fingers against his burning cheeks to cool them down as the tea steeps. By the time he’s finished fixing the tea, Roger has disappeared onto the fire escape.

Once John gets to the window, he pokes his head out into the cold. The fire escape is a nest of blankets and bedding and Roger is bundled in Freddie’s fur throw with only his head and the hand holding his cigarette poking out. When he catches sight of John, he sticks the cigarette between his lips and reaches his hands out to grab both mugs.

“All this for a smoke?” John asks, reaching down to pull off his shoes and discard them next to Roger’s.

Roger shrugs. “I do it all the time.”

“Really?” John says as he climbs through the window.

“Yeah,” Roger says. “I like to come out here when I need to clear my head.”

“So introspective,” John quips.

Once John gets onto the fire escape, Roger hands him back his mug and opens up the fur blanket, inviting John to sit next to him.

John hesitates for a moment before scooting in closer to Roger and drawing the warm blanket around his shoulders. He brings his knees close to his chest and lets his mug of tea warm his hands.

Roger wordlessly offers his cigarette to John in a move that’s second nature to them. John grabs the cigarette and brings it to his lips, smiling around the filter as he takes a drag. They pass it back and forth until Roger snuffs it out on the wall and lights another one.

John shifts underneath the blanket, curling himself up a little closer to Roger’s side as the silence - not quite awkward but not quite comfortable, either - stretches between them. They’ve done this many times - sat in each other’s company without a single word passed between them, but that was when they didn’t need to say anything to each other. Now it’s because neither of them know what to say.

If only it were like the movies. If only the credits rolled at the kiss and they didn’t have to deal with all of this awkward bullshit that comes after. But, unfortunately, no credits rolled and the kiss didn’t erase the fact that John is still in the closet and Roger likely doesn’t know what the hell he is and neither of them are sure where _they_ are headed.

But John figures if they’re going to stumble into dangerous and uncharted territory, they might as well do it together. No more feeling their way through the dark, afraid to call out to the other, no more pushing away when things get too difficult, no more hurting each other.

No more.

John takes a sip of his tea and stares ahead at the building across the street. Behind those dark windows, strangers are sleeping and the world is still turning, unaware that John is about to do the scariest thing he’s ever done in his life.

He tightens his grip on his mug and steels himself, not ready, but not willing to wait any longer. Before he can talk himself out of it, he takes a leap of faith and shows Roger the part of himself he’s never revealed to another soul.

“When I was younger--” John pauses when Roger starts next to him at the unexpected break in silence. John casts him an apologetic glance before continuing.

“When I was younger, the other parents would always make comments about me. ‘Isn’t it odd--’ that’s the word they always used - _‘odd.’_ ” John spits out the word; it tastes like blood in his mouth. “‘Isn’t it _odd_ that little Johnny always plays with the girls instead of the boys?’ ‘Isn’t it _odd_ that little Johnny is so sensitive?’ ‘Isn’t it _odd_ that little Johnny likes to play dress up with his sister?’”

Out of the corner of his eye, John can see Roger turn his head to face him, but John keeps his eyes dead ahead, staring at the little window across the way with the frilly pink curtains.

“And then they would say, ‘Well, that’s just what happens when a boy grows up without his father. Poor thing needs a strong male influence in his life.’”

“John, you don’t have to--” Roger says, but John cuts him off with a wave of his hand.

“I know I don’t have to,” John says, “But I want to.”

John drains the rest of his tea and sets the mug on the window ledge beside him. His hand goes back to his pendant and he takes a deep breath.

“For a long time I hated my dad,” John admits out loud for the first time in his life. “I thought it was his fault somehow. Like because he died and left me I was doomed to be a faggot.”

Roger winces, but John feels nothing when the slur passes his lips.

“Can I?” John asks, indicating to the cigarette between Roger’s fingers.

“‘Course,” Roger says, handing it to John.

John takes a long drag and blows it into the cold air, the fog of his breath mixes with the cigarette smoke to form a large cloud in front of them. His hand shakes slightly and he briefly wonders if this is how Roger felt in the alleyway.

“And then when I was 15 I got a girlfriend. I had a lot of sex with her. I thought that maybe I could fuck myself straight.”

John huffs a bitter laugh and his features harden as he takes another drag from the cigarette.

“Of course that didn’t work and about six months in I cheated on her with a bloke. I was at a house party and there was this guy - he had already graduated and had come back home for Christmas holiday. I got really drunk and we ended up in a spare bedroom and I sucked him off. And then I went straight home and brushed my teeth until my gums bled - not because I did it, but because I liked it.”

Roger moves to grab John’s hand, but stops himself. He isn’t sure what has John saying all this or why John is trusting him with this. It’s all so vulnerable, naked almost, and he can’t tell whether or not he should do something.

“After that, I tried to put it out of my mind. I focused on my band and my schooling and ignored romance and sex altogether. Thought if I didn’t act on it, it wasn’t a sin, you know?”

Roger nods. It looks like John doesn’t even see him. That’s when Roger realizes that it’s not time for him to do anything. He just needs to listen.

“And then, the summer before I went to university, I got a job at a record store to earn a little extra money. This guy Andrew worked there - we were in the same graduating class but we never ran in the same circles.

“Well, obviously being the only two stuck up in the store we had a lot of time to get to know each other. We were fairly friendly, had a lot in common. And then one day, we were on our break, and he kissed me. And I realized… I wanted to do it again,” John says with a little smile, parroting what Roger had told him earlier. “And not only did I want to do it again, I let myself do it again.

“I, uh… I learned a lot that summer,” John says and he blushes slightly, biting back a smile.

“I will always be grateful to Andrew.” John finishes the cigarette and flicks it over the edge. “Even though we both knew it was only a little fling, he helped me more than he will ever know.”

John picks at his fingernail for a moment and worries his bottom lip. Finally, he turns to Roger and takes his mug out of his hands, placing it next to his own. 

“Listen, Rog. I’m telling you all this, because…” John trails off and looks like he’s considering his next words very carefully.

Roger looks at John with wide eyes, unsure of what he is waiting for. He tries to keep a neutral expression, let John say whatever he needs to say, but John must be able to read him better than he thought because when John looks up at Roger’s face, he smiles softly and takes Roger’s hands in his.

“I get it,” John finally says, looking into Roger’s eyes as if he needs him to believe every word he says. “Trust me, Roger, I get it.”

Roger lets out a shaky breath he didn’t even know he was holding. _This is forgiveness._ John is forgiving him, letting him in.

“It took me a long, long time to accept myself for who I am,” John continues, “And even still-- even still, I can’t be open about it. I mean, shit, I couldn’t even tell you or-- or Freddie or Brian.” 

John lets go of Roger’s hands and turns away again, facing out to the street. “I even hide it from my own sister, and she’s the one person in my family who I know wouldn’t care. So, I promise, you are never alone, Roger. I get it.”

Roger can hear John’s voice start to crack and all of his earlier hesitancy slips away. Without a second thought, he wraps his arms around John and pulls him into his chest. He squeezes him tight, as if that will make all of the hurt go away. He brings his lips to the top of John’s head and presses a hard kiss at his crown. He can feel John’s hands grab on to his forearms as he sinks into Roger’s grip.

The quiet sounds of the winter night envelop them and Roger lets go for only a moment to adjust the blanket - trapping them in a warm, safe cocoon - before bringing his arms back around John. They stay that way for a while, huddled together on the fire escape in the cold night air, holding on to each other for dear life.

“You know, I meant what I said earlier,” Roger says softly once John’s breathing evens out. “It’s not just the, uh… the two dicks thing that was bothering me.”

Roger cringes at his poor phrasing, but luckily John chuckles at it.

“You are so important to me, John,” Roger says, “And I’m man enough to admit that scares the hell out of me. I… I don’t know what I would do if I lost you.”

John extracts himself from Roger’s arms and turns around to face him. His eyebrows are furrowed together and he places his hand on Roger’s shoulder.

“You’re my friend first, Roger,” John says, “You will never lose me, no matter what happens. I can promise you that.”

“But you can’t,” Roger whispers desperately.

“Alright.” John lets out a shaky breath before he says, “Then I guess the question is… are you willing to risk it?”

The second the words leave John’s mouth, every disaster scenario that could come from this flashes in front of Roger. His parents could disown him, someone could bash them, their label could drop them, the band could implode, his reputation could be ruined, people could ridicule him, but worst of all, John could leave him. All of these disgusting, horrible things lay neatly inside a Pandora's box, where they could stay tucked away and unable to touch Roger’s life if he ends this right now.

But then he looks into John’s eyes, so patient and hopeful, promising a chance at happiness, and those vile things shrink before the beauty in front of him. So with a single word, Roger rips open the box and invites all of those abominations into the world, daring them to try and ruin this one thing in his life that has ever felt _right_.

“Yes.”

John’s breath catches and Roger reaches up to pull him down into a kiss. It’s messy and needy and he burns for it. He grabs John’s thigh and pulls him towards his lap. John follows the movement and swings his other leg around Roger’s thighs, straddling him and grabbing his face with both hands as he licks into his mouth.

In any other situation, this might feel like a sloppy snog session, but somehow, this is the most intimate thing Roger has ever felt. He needs to feel John’s weight on top of him, his chest pressed against him, reminding him that this is real. He runs his hands up the inside of John’s jumper and pulls him in tight, practically squeezing the life out of him, but John seems just as desperate for the contact if his ragged breath is anything to go by.

Before they can get any further, Roger feels a cold dampness on the top of his head. John must feel it, too, because he lets out a surprised squeak and pulls away. When Roger opens his eyes, he’s a bit slow on the uptake because John’s shiny lips are so very distracting, but when he finally breaks his gaze and looks around, he realizes that it is snowing.

He blinks for a few moments before his eyes land back on John, who is looking up at the sky, wearing the most unimpressed look Roger has ever seen on him.

“How utterly cinematic,” John says, absolutely dripping with sarcasm.

It shocks a laugh out of Roger and John looks back down at him with a smile on his face and snowflakes in his lashes. All at once, the ridiculousness of this entire situation catches up with Roger and the laughter pours out of him. John cocks his head to the side with a curious smile on his face.

“Sorry,” Roger says between breaths. “Sorry, it’s just…”

Roger waves his hands around at everything, willing John to understand as his sides start to split. John looks around at the snow, the rumpled nest of blankets, Roger’s lap that he is still sat upon; and when he meets Roger’s eyes again, he brings a hand up to his mouth and snorts a laugh.

The floodgates open and John descends into his own fit of laughter, causing Roger to take in gasping breaths as a second wave of hysteria washes over him. John drops his head onto Roger’s shoulder and shakes in Roger’s arms and finally, _finally_ things feel like they’re going back to normal. A different normal, but a better one.

Roger rubs John’s back as their laughter slows into short bursts of giggles, and even though the blankets are growing damp and his toes are getting numb, he wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.

“We should probably go back inside,” John says once they calm down, his breath tickles the side of Roger’s neck.

“We probably should,” Roger says as John lifts his head off Roger’s shoulder; and just because he can, Roger leans in for a quick kiss before ushering John off of his lap, committing to memory the slight blush John tries to hide behind his hair as he moves towards the window.

Before he can climb back inside, Roger touches his hand to stop him.

“Would you…” Roger says, “Would you stay the night?”

John looks a bit startled at the question before he smirks and says, “What, too lazy to drive me home?”

Roger rolls his eyes, but honestly, he’s grateful that all of this hasn’t stopped John from being a smartass.

“Well, I could make the excuse that it’s snowing, but really, I just want you to stay,” Roger says, hiding his sincerity behind a flirtatious tone.

John nods his head and softly says, “Okay.”

***

Once they’re back inside, John washes the mugs in the kitchen sink and watches as Roger gathers Freddie’s damp bedding and dumps it unceremoniously onto Freddie’s bedroom floor.

It’s nearing midnight and John’s exhaustion finally catches up to him. All of the adrenaline from the long and tumultuous day swirls down the drain and leaves John about ready to fall asleep right on the kitchen floor and yet he’s still somehow buzzing; his mind refuses to turn off, running everything from the past twelve hours on a constant loop. This is probably how people go mad.

“So are you gonna stand there or you gonna come to bed?” Roger asks.

John blinks and realizes he’s been staring into the empty sink while the tap washes over nothing. He looks up to see Roger leaning against his bedroom door frame with a smirk on his face. John quickly shuts off the water and follows Roger into his bedroom.

Roger locks the door and digs around the pile of clothes on his chair. He hands John a t-shirt like he’s done countless times and they begin to change like they’ve done countless times, but this time is different, and they both sense it.

John unconsciously angles himself away from Roger as he strips off his clothes and quickly pulls on the t-shirt. He tugs a bit at the hem as if that will cover his boxers more.

When he turns back around, Roger is already in bed, looking at John with slight amusement on his face as John hesitates to move towards the bed.

“Shut it,” John mumbles before he finally switches off the overhead light and feels his way to the unoccupied side of the bed, almost tripping over his coat that is crumpled on the floor.

“I didn’t say anything,” Roger says and John can practically hear his cheeky grin.

“You didn’t have to.”

John climbs under the warm comforter and can just make out Roger settling down into his pillow. John tries to do the same. He lies on his side, facing Roger, but feels a bit creepy. He shifts to the other side, with his back to Roger, but then he feels a bit rude. The entire time, he can feel Roger’s eyes on him and it makes him laugh in spite of himself.

“It’s like I forgot how to be in a bed with you,” John says and Roger chuckles in response.

“Alright, mate, come here,” Roger says affectionately.

John can feel the bed shift behind him and then Roger is pressed up against his back. The warmth envelops John as Roger snakes his arm around his torso and splays his hand against his chest. John tenses at the sudden contact and wonders if Roger can feel how fast his heart is beating.

His question is answered when Roger strokes his thumb against John’s chest and whispers, “Is this alright?”

John smiles into the darkness and allows himself to relax into the embrace. “More than.”

Roger presses a kiss to John’s clothed shoulder. “‘Night, Deaky.”

“Goodnight, Rog.”

Roger pulls in a bit closer and everything goes still as the gentle night settles over them. Although sleep wants to overtake him, John keeps his eyes open a little bit longer. He looks out the window at the snow swirling around, listens as Roger’s breath begins to even out and feels as Roger’s hand begins to slip down his chest towards the bed.

He closes his eyes and enjoys the perfect, peaceful moment until, finally, sleep wins.

***

At some point in the night, he and John drifted away from each other; that’s the first thing Roger notices when he wakes up. He opens his eyes and turns his head, and the second he sees John - completely wrapped up under the covers with only a bit of hair poking out the top - those damned butterflies come back.

The second thing he notices is that he needs to piss like a racehorse.

Roger wraps the covers tighter around himself and debates whether or not he can just fall back asleep. After a solid attempt at ignoring his bladder, nature wins and Roger reluctantly gets out of bed, careful not to wake John.

He hisses when his feet hit the cold hardwood floor and he moves light on his toes as he slips out into the living room. The linoleum of the kitchen is worse than the wood floors and the tile of the bathroom even worse than that. Roger dances from foot to foot as he takes a piss and reconsiders his stance that slippers are too lame to be worth it.

Once he gets back to his bedroom, he locks the door again with a soft click and hovers there for a moment just looking at the mess of covers where John sleeps. He pads to the bed and slips carefully under the covers, shivering because his side has already turned cold. He scoots closer to John, seeking warmth, and slowly wraps his arm back around John’s torso.

John stirs a little and Roger freezes. When John doesn’t move for a moment, Roger tries again and sinks down next to John.

Just when he thinks he’s in the clear, he hears a muffled and croaky, “‘Morning,” come from beneath the sheets.

“Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” Roger whispers.

“Been awake,” John says.

Roger props up on his elbow. He moves the covers off of John’s face and snorts a laugh when John turns his head to look at him, bleary-eyed and pissy.

“For how long?” Roger asks.

“Since you got up.” John turns his body fully to face Roger. “You have elephant feet.”

Roger gasps and shoves John’s shoulder. “I was quiet, you wanker!”

“No you weren’t,” John says with a little laugh.

Roger just smiles and brushes John’s hair out of his eyes. The tender gesture shocks them both and John looks up at Roger with wide eyes.

“Sorry,” Roger says, withdrawing his hand.

John looks down and plays with the hem of the pillowcase. “I don’t mind it.”

An awkward silence fills the room until John looks up at Roger again and huffs a little laugh.

“This is gonna be strange for a while, isn’t it?” John asks.

“Probably.”

“And you’re okay with that?” John looks at Roger like he’s expecting him to run out the room.

“I am.” Roger drops his arm and shifts down so he lies eye to eye with John. “Are you?”

“Yes, but--”

“But nothing,” Roger interrupts and moves his hand back to John’s hair. “Get out your head, Deaky. We’ll figure it out as it comes.”

“I’ve never been good at that.” John rolls his eyes but smiles all the same.

“I know,” Roger says with a fondness that scares him a little.

Roger smooths his hand to the nape of John’s neck and moves in a little closer but John pulls back and covers his mouth with his hand.

“Rog, I have morning breath,” John says from beneath his hand.

Roger laughs and pulls John’s hand away. “I don’t give a shit.”

John huffs but doesn’t shy away when Roger closes the gap between them. It doesn’t take long to coax John’s lips apart, morning breath and all, and soon John’s fingers are tangled in Roger’s hair, sending little sparks down Roger’s spine as he plays with the blonde locks.

It shouldn’t feel this natural, to lie in bed on a Thursday morning and share sweet kisses with John; at least, that’s what _they_ all say. But it does. And that makes Roger smile a little bit as he nips on John’s bottom lip before capturing it again between his own.

Roger runs his hand down John’s side and hooks his fingers behind John’s knee to bring his leg over Roger’s hip. He can feel John’s half-hard erection brush near his own and for the briefest moment it shocks him, but then he hears John let out the tiniest little whine, almost like he was trying to hold it back and any qualms Roger had go out the window because fuck, he _needs_ to hear that noise again.

Roger grabs onto John’s thigh and deliberately rolls his hips against John’s. He bites back his own moan at the wonderful friction and relishes in the way John tightens his grip in Roger’s hair and quietly moans into the kiss.

“Fuck,” John says when Roger does it again. “You cheeky--”

Roger smiles and wraps his arm around John’s waist to pull him completely on top as Roger rolls onto his back. John wastes no time in bracing his hands against Roger’s chest and grinding his hips down, a look of triumph in his eye when he elicits a groan from the back of Roger’s throat.

John pulls his hair to one side and bites his lip as Roger slips his hands underneath John’s t-shirt and trails his fingers up his sides. His eyes flutter closed and he gasps as Roger traces the sensitive skin of his ribcage.

Roger drinks in the sight in front of him. They’ve hardly done anything and John already looks fucking etheral. Between his mussed-up bedhead and swollen lips and the way his breathing grows uneven with just Roger’s fingertips tracing lightly over his stomach, it makes Roger want to pin him down and figure out exactly what drives John wild.

He can get used to this.

A small smile tugs at the corner of John’s lips and when he opens his eyes again, there’s a look in them that Roger never thought he would get to see on John.

Oh, yes. He can _definitely_ get used to this.

“Come here,” Roger all but growls, running his hands up John’s back and pulling him down into another kiss.

John gasps into it and Roger takes the opportunity to lick into John’s mouth, turning the kiss sloppy and heated as he moves his hands down to grab onto John’s hips. One of John’s hands sneaks its way up Roger’s shirt and Roger shudders at the feeling of John’s calloused fingertips against his skin.

He gets so lost in the sensation that it takes him a moment to register that John’s hand stilled. It’s only when John rips his lips away that Roger realizes something is wrong.

“What--”

John puts his finger to Roger’s lips to silence him and looks towards the bedroom door.

“I thought I heard something,” John whispers.

As soon as the words leave his mouth, they both hear the unmistakable sound of the front door closing.

“Rog, are you home?” Roger can hear Freddie call from the living room.

John’s eyes go wide and he looks back at Roger. He doesn’t move, one hand up Roger’s shirt and the other still against his lips, seemingly frozen in panic, and it all feels like some strange sketch out of a Marx Brothers movie. The mood most certainly killed, Roger can’t help but huff a laugh.

“Yeah,” Roger calls from behind John’s finger. John blinks a few times and removes it before Roger adds, “Deaky is here, too.”

“Oh, good, I have some new basslines to give him.” Freddie’s voice grows muffled as he moves further into the flat.

John looks down at Roger, mouth open in shock.

“What?” Roger says innocently. “He’s not going to suspect anything unless you plan on staying like this.”

Roger flicks his eyes down to their compromising position before he shoots John a little wink. That seems to finally spur John into action.

“You prick,” John mumbles as he scrambles off of Roger.

Roger decides he doesn’t want to let him get away that easy and pulls John in again by the waist while John playfully tries to kick him away. Roger holds fast, stifling a laugh. John shoots his best attempt at a serious glare and Roger thinks it should be illegal for him to look so endearing like that.

“You’re such an arse,” John says with a breathless laugh.

“Yeah, I know,” Roger whispers. He smacks an obnoxious kiss on John’s cheek before he finally lets him go.

Suddenly, they hear a banging against Roger and Freddie’s shared bedroom wall followed by a very loud, “ _Roger, what the fuck?_ ”

Roger looks at the wall, eyes wide and panic flashes through him. Maybe Freddie did actually suspect something.

He turns his head to John, expecting to find the same panic on his face, but instead, John has his hand up to his mouth, clearly trying to hold back a laugh.

“I think he found the bedding,” John whispers before clapping his hand back over his mouth.

The bedding. Relief rushes through Roger and he doesn’t hold back the laughter that bubbles out.

“Oh my God, I forgot about that,” Roger whispers back as his best attempts to keep his laugh quiet fail him.

Soon, John joins in, giggling like crazy and hiding his face behind his hands. 

“ _Don’t you dare fucking laugh, you bitch!_ ” Freddie bangs on the wall again and it only sends them howling.

Roger looks over at John. He’s now clutching his stomach, red in the face and looking at the ceiling as his entire body shakes from laughter. He turns his head and makes eye contact with Roger. They go silent for a moment, but it’s a losing battle and they both descend into laughter again, much to Freddie’s sure dismay.

Yes. Yes, he can definitely get used to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends! Wow this chapter took me a hot minute to update. I've been acting in a short film and have just had zero energy to sit down and write after those 12 hour shooting days. But it's all wrapped now and the newest chapter is here! This was a challenging chapter to write in all of the best ways and I hope y'all enjoyed it!
> 
> OH! Also, I bit the bullet and made myself a little Queen Tumblr (okay okay really its a Deaky stan account don't come for me lmao). Figured if I'm going down the rabbit hole, I'm going all the damn way to the bottom. My username over there is "psychicstrawberryworld". The username has absolutely nothing to do with Queen, Tumblr just recommended it to me and I liked it lmaooo


	12. Playing Hooky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, friends, this chapter is rated E for eeeeek I got a little carried away with the sex scene and ended up with a 5,000 word smut fest but I promise there's plot in there somewhere!!

Roger knocks back the rest of his lukewarm beer and weaves through a crowd of people to grab another from Mary’s small kitchen. This isn’t quite what he was expecting when Freddie promised an “intimate gathering” for New Year’s Eve, but he’ll never turn his nose up to a party. He giggles happily as he navigates the minefield of legs sprawled out in the hallway belonging to a group of stoned strangers and squeezes past a couple in the doorway to the kitchen.

“‘Scuse me, sweetheart,” Roger says to the girl leaning against the fridge, ignoring the way her and her friend’s eyes rake over his body as she gets out the way.

“Grab me one?” the girl asks Roger as he fishes a beer out of the refrigerator.

Wordlessly, he grabs her one as well and hands it to her. He takes the bottle opener off of the counter and cracks open his beer; he is about to leave the kitchen when the girl interrupts him again.

“Do mine, too?”

With his back to the girls, Roger huffs a laugh. He grabs the bottle opener again and turns around to quickly open her beer, avoiding her hand as she slides it up the bottle to meet his.

“Cheers.” Roger lifts his own drink and backs out of the kitchen.

“Off so soon?”

Roger barely hums a response as he squeezes past the couple again and ducks down the hallway.

He walks through the beaded curtain into the living room and props himself up on the window ledge. The cold night air seeps through the drafty window and hits Roger’s bare skin where his shirt has come untucked from his jeans.

Across the room, through a crowd of people, Roger spots John. He sits on the patchwork couch, legs crossed and leaning against the arm as he quietly listens to whatever grand story Freddie is narrating at the moment from his throne of an armchair. A few other people Roger vaguely recognizes from previous parties sit on cushions around the coffee table, passing a joint around from person to person. Someone passes the joint to John and he passes it on to Mary - perched on Freddie’s lap - without taking a hit.

John looks his way and Roger raises his bottle. John raises his glass in return before he downs the rest of his drink and turns back to Freddie.

It’s been a few days since they talked and they have hardly had a moment alone. Roger has been surviving on stolen kisses during smoke breaks at the studio and the occasional brush of John’s hand when the others aren’t looking. One night, he almost even called John at three in the morning just to hear his voice. Luckily, he talked himself out of that one before he made himself look like a desperate fool.

It’s all brand new and jittery and he’s never _wanted_ another person like this before. It’s maddening. It’s petrifying. It’s damn well confusing. But something about it all tells him it’s well worth it.

A raucous laughter rises from the group of Freddie’s stoned disciples and John turns his head back to look at Roger again. This time he mouths _“save me”_ with a little laugh before Freddie grabs his hand and pulls him back into the conversation.

Roger doesn’t need any more convincing. He chuckles and takes a swig of his beer. He is about to hop off of the window ledge when Brian stumbles up next to him and bumps into his leg, almost knocking him off of his precarious perch and making him choke on his drink.

“Rog, help me out,” Brian says, leaning in enough that Roger can catch the liquor on his breath.

“What’s wrong?” Roger sputters, beating his chest to clear his windpipe.

“I’ve been chatting up this bird all night, trying to get her out of here, but she doesn’t want to leave her friend alone,” Brian explains clumsily. “Be a mate and come give her friend some company, yeah?”

Roger feels something cold shoot down his spine. 

“Sorry, Bri, not tonight,” Roger says quickly.

“Wait, seriously?” Brian asks and Roger can’t blame him. He’s always been Brian’s go-to wingman, and Brian has always been his. “Why not?”

“Um…” Roger stalls for a moment, running through his brain trying to find some plausible excuse. Finding nothing, he shrugs and says, “Just not in the mood.”

“Not in the mood?” Brain puffs at the preposterous notion. “Roger, I’m basically handing you a guaranteed pull.”

“I know, just… not tonight, mate.”

“Roger, _please_ , I’ve been working this girl all night,” Brian practically whines.

“Then go work her some more or find a new bird. It’s not my bloody problem,” Roger snaps. 

Before Brian can say anything else, Roger hops off of the windowsill and leaves him to pout.

***

John does his best to listen to Freddie’s story, but it’s a losing battle. Honestly, he didn’t even want to come tonight, and the overheated room and sickening cloud of marijuana swirling around him only reaffirm that fact.

If anyone asks him, he’ll say it was Freddie’s pouting that finally convinced him to come, but really it was Roger’s suggestive promise of swooping them out of the party early that got him on the tube down to Mary’s flat. The past few days have been absolute torture and he’ll happily suffer through a cramped house party with shitty music if it means finally getting a damn second alone with Roger.

The couch dips and a warm body presses against John’s side. He starts for a moment and turns to see it’s only Roger. He smiles when Roger bumps his leg in a silent hello.

“So what did I miss over here?” Roger asks, more to John than anyone else.

“Freddie is telling us about the time he tried to sneak a cat in your flat,” John says.

“Oh, yeah.” Roger leans forward and swats Freddie’s leg. “He hid it in his room for three days before I found out.”

“And you’ll never understand how much it broke my heart when you made me give it away!” Freddie exclaims, slightly drawling out his words through his wine-stained lips.

“Yeah, well our landlord would have kicked us out in a heartbeat and I prefer not being homeless,” Roger says.

“Oh, I’m sure he would have made an exception for that sweet little thing,” Freddie replies.

Roger sinks back into the couch and casts a knowing look at John, making him giggle. John leans back on the arm and rests his chin in his hand as Freddie launches back into his story, but all he can focus on is the fact that Roger’s leg is pressed up against his own.

“Deaks,” Roger says low enough that the others can’t hear.

“Hm?” John breaks his attention from Freddie and looks at Roger.

Roger angles his face away from the group and gets close enough to John that he can feel Roger’s breath against his ear.

“Let’s get out of here.” Roger’s voice is low and raspy and it sends a shiver down John’s spine.

With Freddie holding the rest of the group in rapt attention, John puts his cheek against his hand and lets his hair shield his face as he talks to Roger. They both know where this is going, but John can never resist a game of cat-and-mouse.

“But, it’s only ten o’clock.”

“So?” Roger raises his eyebrow and leans in a bit closer.

“So, we’ll miss the fireworks,” John says, his eyes wide in mock-innocence as a smirk tugs at his lips.

“Hm.” Roger brings his beer to his lips and drains the rest of it, throwing his head back to show off the smooth curve of his throat as he swallows. When he pulls it away, John’s eyes follow the movement and Roger starts to slowly circle the lip of the bottle with his thumb. John can feel his face heat up and it’s only made worse when he looks back up to find Roger wearing an infuriatingly smug smirk. “That would be a pity.”

Roger cocks his head and rakes his eyes down John’s face, lingering at his lips before looking back up again. He gets dangerously close for the amount of people around them, and if John were more sober he’d definitely lean away, but right now, he all but squirms under the intensity of Roger’s gaze. He swallows hard, not quite sure if he trusts himself to hold back if Roger decides to take the game even one inch further.

“Let’s go.”

And just like that, Roger leans back and flashes John a triumphant grin. He gives John a friendly clap on the knee before he pushes off the couch. John has to suppress a laugh when he turns around and chivalrously offers his hand out. John accepts it and really does laugh when Roger roughly yanks him up.

“Where are you two going?” Freddie interrupts his story to ask.

“Just popping out for a smoke!” John calls over his shoulder as Roger hurriedly ushers him towards the hallway.

They giggle as they weave their way through the mass of people like two kids playing hookie. On the way down the hall, Roger disappears into the kitchen for just a moment before he reappears and shoves a bottle of champagne into John’s hands, shushing John’s protests with a promise that no one will miss it.

Roger drags John to the front door and they stop for only a moment while Roger digs through the pile of coats and jackets on the wooden stool until he finds theirs. John grabs his sensible bomber jacket - in stark contrast to Roger’s ridiculous fur coat - and slips it on as Roger opens the front door.

He follows Roger up the few steps to the street level and zips his jacket against the cold. Once they get on the pavement, Roger doesn’t stop. He takes a cigarette out of his coat pocket and quickly lights it as he heads towards the main road. John can’t help but laugh as he quickens his pace to keep up.

“You’re in a hurry,” John teases.

Roger chuckles around the cigarette filter. “Well, obviously.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because.” Roger quickly looks up and down the street before he grabs John’s hand and pulls them into a small alcove between two houses.

Out of view from the street lamps, Roger backs up against the wall and pulls John in by his belt loop. John can just make out Roger’s smile as he leans close to John’s lips and says, “I really wanted to do this.”

Roger kisses him slow and sweet, almost like he’s asking permission, so John grants it by bringing his free hand up to Roger’s cold cheek. He feels Roger smile against his lips before he is pulled in even closer. John giggles and angles his head as Roger parts his lips. The taste of cigarette smoke is heavy on Roger’s tongue. It’s a taste John has found himself quickly grow addicted to; so very heady and hazy, and so, so very _Roger_. His head is absolutely swimming and he hardly notices Roger’s wandering hand until he feels a firm squeeze on his arse cheek.

John yelps and breaks the kiss, which only makes Roger chuckle and squeeze again.

“Handsy,” John chides.

“What can I say?” Roger shrugs and unabashedly slips his hand into John’s back pocket, pressing their hips closer together as he takes a drag from his forgotten cigarette. “You’ve got a great arse.”

“Yeah, alright,” John says, hoping it’s dark enough that Roger can’t see the flush on his cheeks. He wonders if there will ever be a day where his heart doesn’t skip a beat over Roger’s relentless flirting. A part of him hopes that day never comes.

“You know it’s true,” Roger says in a low voice that has John’s heart racing. “If I’m being honest, that’s what started it all for me. This arse in those satin pants.”

“You mean the pants _you_ picked out,” John bats back, but his words turn into a breathless gasp when Roger noses his hair out of the way and starts to brush feather-light kisses down his neck.

“Mhm,” Roger hums in response and teases the sensitive skin under his jaw. John could stay there all night, but he has enough clarity of mind left to know they are really pushing their luck where they are. With great difficulty, he extracts himself from Roger’s grasp and he plucks the cigarette from Roger’s fingers.

“Can’t say I blame you,” John says before he sticks the cigarette between his lips and turns on his heel to head back to the pavement.

Roger gasps where he left him and says, “I _knew_ you were as vain as the rest of us!”

“What gave it away?” John calls over his shoulder, laughing as Roger hurries to catch up.

***

“Finally, the afterparty,” Roger says as they stumble inside John’s apartment and shrug off their jackets. They are still giggly after a very strange taxi ride with a talkative cabbie who just had to tell them about his brilliant idea for the next great western blockbuster.

“Oh, is that where we are?” John asks as he perches on the end of his bed.

“Yup.” Roger turns towards John and gets close enough that he can see the pink on the tip of John’s wind-chilled nose in the dim lamplight. “And only the cool kids are invited.”

“Short guest list.” John quips as Roger grabs the champagne from his hand.

“What, you want to invite a third?” Roger raises an eyebrow. “Freaky Deaky.”

John doesn’t dignify that with a response and instead leans down to take off his platforms, but Roger can still see the laugh he’s trying to bite back.

Roger chuckles as he backs up and begins to twist the wire holding down the cork in the champagne bottle. With a little more effort than he’d care to admit, Roger finally pops the cork with only a tiny bit of bubbles fizzing over the top. He licks the champagne off of his hand before it drips to the floor and walks the few steps to John’s kitchenette.

“I’ll let you pick the music if you promise no disco,” Roger says as he throws open the small cabinet above the sink.

“Wow, thank you for letting me choose the music in my own house,” John deadpans, breaking into a laugh when Roger throws him the finger over his shoulder.

Roger grabs two stemless wine glasses and pours a generous amount of champagne into each. He takes the champagne bottle in one hand and pinches the rim of both wine glasses between his fingers in the other and makes his way to the couch. He sets the bottle on the coffee table and toes off his shoes before he kneels on the couch, leaning up on the arm rest to hand John his glass.

John accepts it and takes a sip. He makes a face as he swallows and coughs a bit. “If you’re going to keep stealing alcohol, you might at least try and make it worth your trouble.”

“Hey!” Roger exclaims. “Beggars can’t be choosers and all that.”

John giggles and sends Roger a smile that warms him more than the radiator ever could. John sets his drink down on the little table and goes back to flipping through his albums. Roger simply watches him for a moment before it hits him that their shared silence finally feels comfortable again.

Finally, John pulls out _Talking Book_ and holds it up for Roger like he’s presenting the prize in one of those American game shows. “Does this have Roger Taylor’s mark of approval?”

“Interesting choice,” Roger says with a smirk.

“Rhythm and blues, baby,” John says, pitching his voice lower and giving an overdramatic roll of his shoulders.

The display shocks a laugh out of Roger and he throws his head back, feeling as bubbly as the champagne. He settles back on the couch as John puts the record on. Once John has the volume set low, he grabs his glass and takes a drink, bopping his head a few times as he scoots between the coffee table to join Roger on the couch.

“Do you think the others will notice we left?” John asks as he sits down.

“Oh, absolutely not,” Roger says. “Brian was on a mission to get laid and you saw how far gone Fred was.”

Roger crosses his legs and holds his wine glass up as he puts on his best Freddie impression. “‘And then - oh, darlings, you just wouldn’t _believe_ it - I had scratches all up my arms and down my back. You’d think I was involved in some kind of orgy!’”

“Stop that,” John says playfully, swatting Roger’s arm.

“He wasn’t even the one who got the scratches.” Roger laughs and turns back towards John. “ _I_ got them when I was trying to wrestle the damn cat into a box so I could bring it to my mate who agreed to take it in. Freddie refused to help. Said he was protesting.”

John huffs a laugh. “Sounds like something he’d do.”

“Yeah…”

Their laughs trickle out and the room suddenly feels very heavy. There’s nothing in between them now; no roommates to cockblock them or bandmates to put up a front for. That knowledge descends upon the both of them, feeling almost palpable in the air around them. At least for Roger’s part, he knows what he wants, and it’s as thrilling as it is terrifying. Roger glances over at John, who has become very interested in the ring of water his sweating glass left on his knee.

He can practically see the wheels starting to turn in John’s mind, the anxiety seeping under his skin. So, before either of them has time to overthink, Roger goes with the first idea his tipsy mind supplies him. He puts his drink down on the coffee table and gets up on his knees. He swings one leg over John’s thighs and plants himself firmly in John’s lap.

“Rog, what--”

Roger just winks and grabs John’s wine glass from his hand, taking a sip and briefly turning to put it on the coffee table next to his. When he turns back, John’s hands are already on his waist and Roger wraps his arms around John’s neck to pull him into a messy kiss. John’s hands move to Roger’s back and he pulls him in tighter.

Roger has never been in this position before - he’s always the one being straddled - and while it does feel a bit strange, he’s surprised to find he doesn’t mind it all that much. Especially not when he has John’s large, sure hands wrapped around his back.

“What are you doing?” John finally finishes his question once they pull apart.

Roger just shrugs and says matter-of-factly, “I’m seducing you.”

John snorts a laugh. “Is that what this is?”

“Piss off,” Roger mutters, playfully poking a finger into John’s side and making John laugh even harder.

Roger quickly shuts John up by capturing his lips in another kiss. 

He can feel his heart race as he tangles his hands in John’s hair. He really didn’t think this through; because now that he’s here, in John’s lap, “seducing” him, he’s hit with the stark reality that he’s flying blind. It shouldn’t be that difficult, he’s a bloke himself, he knows what he likes at least, but he’s severely out of his element. 

Then again, it’s just sex. He’s good at that; he’s excellent at it if he says so himself. But this is sex with a bloke. Even more than that, it’s sex with John. The last thing he wants to do is embarrass himself by being clumsy with a cock.

Roger is dimly aware of John slipping his hands underneath his shirt to trace up his bare back. He tries to pull back into the present and squash his runaway thoughts. He’s never been one for overthinking and he isn’t about to start now, so he decides to do what he always does: jump in head first and figure out the rest later.

So, without any further ado, he runs his hands down John’s torso and starts to fiddle with the button on his jeans.

“Wait. Wait, Roger.” John pulls away from Roger’s lips, stilling Roger’s hands with his own. “Are-- are you sure?”

“Deaks.” Roger scoffs. “I refuse to get off humping you like a bloody teenager.”

John looks into Roger’s eyes with a calm, open expression and in that moment Roger curses the fact that John has always been able to see right through him. 

“You know what I mean,” John says softly.

“John.” Roger rolls his eyes. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“Okay…” John says, apprehension clear in his voice. For a moment Roger wonders if he misread everything and this isn’t at all what John had in mind for tonight.

“Are _you_ sure?” Roger asks.

“Yes, obviously, but…”

“But what?”

“I…” John smooths his hands down Roger’s sides as he mulls over his words. “I don’t want you to think you have to rush in for my benefit or anything. I know it’s all new to you and--”

Roger snorts a laugh. “I’m not a bloody virgin, Deaky.”

“Well, obviously not. We all know you’re a slag,” John teases and Roger digs his finger into John’s side again but laughs all the same. 

“I just…” John sighs. “I don’t want you to feel pressured into--”

“Are you daft?” Roger interrupts. “John, listen to me. Please.”

John nods and Roger takes a moment to trace over John’s face, studying his gentle bone structure with the pads of his fingers before he continues.

“I know it took me a while to pull my head out of my arse, but I’m here now,” Roger says, feeling some of the tension ease out of the room when John chuckles slightly. “You have no _idea_ how bad I want this. Yeah, I know I’m all jittery and shit, but it’s not cause I feel like you’re pressuring me. God, please don’t ever think that.

“I swear, I haven’t been able to get you off my mind; especially not since I had you wriggling around in my lap the other morning.” John’s cheeks flush and Roger cracks a smile, following the bloom with his finger, down his neck to his sternum where it disappears into his shirt. He gently pushes John’s hair aside and starts sucking soft kisses into his neck, taking his time until John’s breath grows uneven and he’s craning his neck for more. He makes his way up to John’s ear and enjoys the thrum of anticipation radiating off of John before he continues.

“I want it all, John,” Roger whispers, smiling when John lets out a shuddering breath. “And I want it with you.”

Roger picks his head up to look at John again. “Truth be told, I’ve been thinking about it a lot longer than just the other day. Made for some _very_ confusing wanks, I’ll admit.”

John huffs a laugh. “Pervert.”

“Exactly,” Roger says, carding his fingers through John’s hair. “So I promise, you’re not pressuring me, or corrupting me, or buggering me, or whatever it is those puritans out there want to call it. I want this. I can’t put it any plainer. Okay?”

“Okay,” John whispers before giving Roger a quick kiss.

“But I’m slowing you down,” he murmurs against Roger’s lips. “Can’t just rip a man’s trousers off.”

Roger throws his head back and laughs. “Alright, that’s fair enough.”

John pulls Roger into another kiss. Roger’s heart is still beating like a jackrabbit, and that does nothing for his ego. He feels John place a hand on his chest, right above his racing heart. Before he can think about how embarrassing it is that he’s so damn nervous, John breaks away and holds his hand firm to Roger’s chest when he chases his lips.

“Roger,” John says gently. “It’s alright, just let me show you.”

It’s hard for him to admit - even to himself - how utterly clueless he is in all of this, let his guard down in a way he’s never done before, but he swallows his pride and nods, putting his trust in John to guide him. 

“Just remember what you always say to me,” John says, smiling when Roger furrows his brow. “Get out your head.”

Roger can’t help but huff a laugh even as he rolls his eyes. “Stop being so damn sensible.”

“Never,” John whispers as he brings his hand to the nape of Roger’s neck and pulls him in.

This time, Roger sinks into the kiss. He brings his arms back around John’s neck and presses in as close as he can. They kiss languidly, nipping at lips and tasting the champagne on each other’s tongues. With John pressed against him, one hand playing with his hair and the other tracing up his back, it isn’t long before Roger feels that fire spark deep inside. Although there are still a bit of nerves lingering in Roger’s mind, he can feel it burning away, consumed by an overwhelming need for _more_.

Roger trails his hands down John’s neck to the buttons on his shirt. He pops them open one by one, each of John’s hitched breaths as he lightly drags his fingernails down to the next button searing themselves into Roger’s mind. He pushes the silky fabric to the side and wraps his hands around John’s waist. Having John under his hands, warm and inviting, fills Roger with the impossible need to feel ever-closer, closer, closer.

He squeezes John’s waist and bites down on John’s bottom lip, a spark shooting down his spine when John tightens his grip on his hair and crushes his lips in a bruising kiss. John’s ragged breaths travel through his hands and up his arms, their off-kilter rhythm filling Roger’s body with a luscious beat. Roger groans into the kiss and he rolls his hips down onto John’s, seeking anything to relieve the mounting pressure he feels growing between his legs. He hears John moan, so he does it again and John clutches the back of Roger’s shirt.

“Yeah?” Roger’s voice already sounds rough to his own ears. He pulls back slightly to catch sight of John: lips swollen, pupils blown, breath ragged; and all because of Roger.

“ _Yes_ ,” John hisses when Roger rolls his hips again.

Roger doesn’t have time to feel too proud about it all because before he can even think, John tugs on Roger’s hair, bearing Roger’s neck for him and starts to leave a trail of burning kisses that has Roger breathless and dizzy. John grazes his teeth over Roger’s collarbone, pulling a needy whimper out of Roger’s throat that he’d be more embarrassed about if he had the presence of mind to worry about such things.

He feels John’s hands move to his shirt, frantically undoing the little wooden buttons until he reaches up and pushes Roger’s shirt off of his shoulders. Roger takes over and pulls it off and carelessly tosses it behind him. He grabs John’s chin and licks into his mouth, desperation taking its hold as he shoves John’s shirt off as well.

Roger grinds down onto John with intent, groaning into his mouth as John scratches down his bare back, the pain stinging in the most delicious way. He quickly falls into a rhythm that John matches, but it’s not enough. His cock is already straining against the unforgiving confines of his jeans and he needs more. He needs more of the noises he’s pulling out of John, he needs more to feed the fire growing bright inside of him, and fuck, he just needs John’s hand on his cock; he might go mad without it. John must be feeling the same because soon Roger feels John’s hands fumbling with the button of his jeans.

“Fuck, get these off.” John’s voice is rough and frantic, nothing like his usual calm and gentle cadance, and it sends a thrill down Roger’s spine.

“You, too,” Roger purrs right into John’s ear.

Roger gets up onto shaky legs and starts to undo his jeans while John discards his at a seemingly record pace. Roger steps out of the legs of his pants and stumbles a bit when his foot gets caught. He curses under his breath and hears John laugh before John grabs hold of his waist to keep him steady as he pulls the jeans off with one final tug. Roger laughs in spite of himself, but it dies in his throat when he looks down at John.

John looks up at Roger with a little bit of mischief behind his eyes. He tucks one leg under himself and a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he pulls Roger in a little bit closer. Before Roger can react, John flicks the hair out of his face and starts to pepper Roger’s stomach with bites and kisses. Roger’s hands go to John’s shoulders when John starts to suck a mark on his hip right above the waistband of his pants.

For a moment, Roger thinks he might actually collapse when one of John’s hands moves from his waist and starts to graze its way up his leg. Roger can hear his breath grow louder, rougher; he knows he must sound desperate for it, and he can only imagine John feels very smug about the whole thing.

John plays with the hem of Roger’s pants, slipping a finger under it and tracing around his leg, leaving a burning path in its wake. Roger tightens his grip on John’s shoulders and lets out a huff of frustration when John’s hand bypasses the one place he needs to be touched most. He can feel John smile against his hip and he almost says something snarky, but whatever thought he had goes out the window when John slips his fingers underneath the waistband of his pants.

John pulls away from Roger’s hip and grins at the bruise he left behind, looking particularly proud of himself.

He looks up at Roger, his fingers still hooked on Roger’s waistband, and softly asks, “Can I?”

All Roger can do is tangle his hands in John’s hair and nod his head, knocked speechless for once in his life. He holds his breath as John starts to pull his pants down, anticipation coursing through his veins, making his skin feel hot all over.

John shoves Roger’s pants past his knees. Roger’s stomach flips at the look in John’s eye when he sees Roger’s cock standing proud against his stomach. John’s gaze is so lustful that Roger can almost feel it caressing his skin. He’s seen that look before, plenty of times on plenty of people; but to see it on John is enough to drive him insane.

John’s hands make it back to Roger’s hips, he grips hard and Roger feels his blood pulsing where John’s fingers press into his flesh. He looks up at Roger one more time, his eyes dark with desire. Roger can’t look away. Then, without any fanfare, John flicks his eyes back down and licks a stripe up Roger’s cock, swirls his tongue around the head and sinks down, pulling a moan out of Roger as John’s hot, wet mouth surrounds him.

John starts to move and Roger’s legs almost give out right then and there. He tightens his hands in John’s hair and John moans around him; the vibrations course through Roger and light every one of his nerves on fire. Moans and curses and pleas spill forth from Roger’s lips as John falls into a maddingly delicious pace, drowning out the music spinning out softly in the background.

“Fuck,” Roger pants out, dazed as all anything. “How are you so good at this?”

He can feel John blow out a laugh through his nose and the fog clears enough for Roger to realize what he just said.

“Right.” Roger lets out a breathless laugh. “Sorry, stupid question.”

John takes him deeper in response and Roger almost doubles over. “Jesus, _fuck_ , John--”

Roger can feel the pleasure fizzing at the base of his spine, the heat roiling around deep inside, and he definitely doesn’t want it to end like this. He tugs on John’s hair in warning and John pulls off.

The _sight_ of John is almost enough to make him come untouched. His hair is wild from where Roger has been twisting his hands through it and his eyes shine with searing desire, but it’s his lips - his pink, puffy, shiny lips - that cause something inside of Roger to snap.

He pushes John down onto the couch so he is half-leaning up on the arm and crawls over him, slotting his thigh between John’s legs. John stares up at Roger, lips parted and chest heaving and Roger can’t resist dragging his thumb along John’s bottom lip, watching it move beneath his finger as John’s eyes flutter closed. He grips the back of John’s neck and drags him in, crushing their lips together and tasting himself in John’s mouth.

Roger knows only a moment of hesitation before he runs his hand down John’s heaving chest, down his trembling stomach, to the top of his pants. Before he can give himself time to think about all the ways he might be absolute shit at this, he moves his hand down further and brushes it over John’s clothed erection.

John whimpers into Roger’s mouth and rolls his hips up, seeking the friction of Roger’s hand and Roger almost growls at it, something flaming deep inside. Emboldened, Roger moves his hand up and down the outline of John’s hard cock. He swallows down every one of John’s whimpers and moans, his confidence growing with every roll of John’s hips and every dig of his blunt nails in his back.

Needing to see what else he can pull out of John, Roger drags his pants off. He trails his hands up the inside of John’s thighs, holding John’s pleading eye and relishing in the way John’s breaths grow quicker, sharper the closer he gets, the way he fights against squirming under Roger’s touch, sensitive as anything. He grazes the back of his finger up the length of John’s cock, desire rolling over deep in his stomach when John lets out a shuttered breath, lets Roger see the hunger in his eyes.

Finally, he wraps his hand around John’s cock.

It feels warm and heavy in his hand when he takes an experimental stroke, but he can’t say he minds it. Especially not when John throws his head back and lets out a breathy, “ _Fuck!_ ”

The pale expanse of John’s throat is too inviting to resist, so Roger leans down, mouthing and biting and sucking at any bit of salty skin he can find as he starts to move his hand up and down. Roger tries out everything he likes himself on John and while he’s positive it’s not the best handjob that John has ever received, he soon he has John writhing beneath him, letting out breathy moans and arching his back towards him as he moves down to smother his chest with kisses.

Roger really hadn’t known what to expect with all of this, but it certainly wasn’t John being this _responsive_. It’s like everywhere his lips land has John melting under his touch as his hips roll into Roger’s hand of their own accord. The whole thing drives Roger wild with need.

“God, John--” Roger hovers over John and removes his hand from John’s cock to grab his hip, feeling a small swell of pride when John fails to shove down a whine at the loss. He presses his forehead against John’s. “Can I fuck you?”

To his surprise, John starts shaking beneath his hands and he picks his head up to find John stifling a laugh.

“What?” Roger props himself up even more and John brings his hands up to his face, letting out a real laugh when Roger questions him again.

“It’s just--” John takes a few deep breaths and looks up at Roger with shining eyes. “Such a sweet talker, yeah?”

“Well, how else am I supposed to phrase it?” Roger asks indignantly.

“It just took me by surprise is all,” John says, sitting up with Roger and soothing his pride with a kiss. Roger can’t help but crack a smile when John reaches up and brushes his fringe out of his eyes. “The answer is yes, by the way.”

John starts to twist out of Roger’s grasp. “Just give me a second,” he says as he turns to the arm of the couch and leans over it to open the drawer at the bottom of his wardrobe.

Roger groans at the sight. “You did that shit on purpose, didn’t you?”

John’s giggle turns into a yelp when Roger reaches out and squeezes his bum. He just barely resists biting down on one of his pert little arse cheeks because he is trying to be somewhat of a gentleman. Instead, he asks, “Watcha looking for, Deaks?”

John pushes himself up and turns back around, brandishing a bottle of lube. “I, uh..” John says and Roger notices his cheeks grow slightly pink. “I’ll just do this next bit.”

It takes a moment for Roger to figure out what John is talking about, but once he does, he reaches out and puts his hand over John’s. It’s clear John feels just as vulnerable as him and a strong sense of protectiveness washes over him. “Can I do it?”

John looks at him with a mixture of shock and relief. “Are you sure?”

“Of course,” Roger says, coaxing the bottle out of John’s hand. “Might have to give me a few pointers, but I’m a pretty fast learner if I do say so myself.”

“I can do that,” John says with a smile.

Roger warms up some lube between his fingers and sets the bottle on the coffee table while John gets settled onto his back. Roger trails his clean hand up the inside of John’s thigh before he moves to hover back over John, the closeness making both of them feel safer. John starts at the first touch, but melts into it as Roger slowly circles his finger against John’s entrance.

“Okay?” Roger whispers, searching John’s face for any sort of discomfort.

“Yeah. Just go slow. It’s, uh… It’s been a while,” John says with a breathy laugh, his cheeks blushing pink again, and something inside of Roger melts at it.

He leans down to give John a slow, lingering kiss to distract him as he pushes his finger in to the first knuckle. John takes in a sharp breath through his nose, so Roger stills his hand until he feels John relax a little. He begins to move his finger slowly, going deeper each time. He kisses along John’s jaw to his ear and sucks on the sensitive skin there when John turns his head for more.

“Let me know if anything feels bad,” Roger whispers into his ear.

“No, it-- it’s good.” John’s hands move to Roger’s back and he rolls his hips into Roger with a shuddered breath. “You can add another.”

Roger does what he’s told and removes his finger before slowly pressing two into John. He goes slow and watches John’s face, honestly pretty damn scared to hurt him in any way. He’s never had anything up his arse before, but he can only imagine it won’t be all that pleasant for John if he messes anything up.

“Am I doing it right?” Roger can’t help but ask. 

“Yeah, actually,” John says, a little breathless. “But, if you kind of crook your fingers up, then… well, just do it, you’ll see.”

Roger does it. He presses in and out a few more times until John tenses up and lets out an absolutely wanton moan that sears itself into Roger’s brain.

“Oh,” Roger says, a wicked grin growing in his face. “Is that it?”

“Yeah.” John giggles. “That’s it.”

“Can you take more?” Roger asks, unsure of just how fast or slow or rough or gentle he should be.

“Rog, I won’t break,” John says, giving Roger’s arm a reassuring squeeze.

Roger nods; he leans up a little more to get a better angle and starts to fuck John on his fingers, pressing into that spot as many times as he can. The fire burns bright in his gut as John starts to fall apart underneath him. John’s cheeks flush and he turns his head into his arm, his pink lips pressing against his pale skin as his moans grow rougher, catching in his throat before spilling out in a melody made by the thrust of Roger’s fingers.

“A third, Rog,” John slurs, his voice choked and raw.

“Are-- are you sure?”

“ _Please._ ”

Roger has to bite down on his lip to stifle his own moan. He removes his fingers and quickly adds a third, giving his own cock a squeeze when John sobs out a moan. He isn’t sure how long he needs to do this, but he could happily stay there all night, twisting his fingers inside of John and watching him writhe around, chest heaving and moaning his name. 

Finally, John squeezes Roger’s arm, sounding absolutely _wrecked_ when he says, “I’m ready, Rog. I’m ready.”

Roger doesn’t need any more convincing. He slows his hand before he slides out his fingers, giving John an apologetic look when he winces at the sensation. John catches his breath as Roger wipes his hand on his thigh and starts to settle between John’s legs. But, before he can do anything, John holds his hand to Roger’s chest.

“Can I ride you?” John asks. Roger raises his eyebrows and even John seems shocked by the boldness of his own question because he quickly qualifies it with, “It… it’ll probably be easier.”

“Deaks.” Roger huffs a laugh. “I am never going to say no to that.”

John gives him a shy smile and pushes him up before settling in his lap. Roger’s hands immediately find themselves on John’s hips while John turns around and swipes the lube off the coffee table.

“Cheers.” John gives a cheeky wink before he squeezes a generous amount into his hand.

Roger throws his head back onto the couch and digs his fingers into John’s hips when John fists his hand over Roger’s neglected cock. Then, John’s hand slows and Roger picks his head up in time to see John lifting his hips. John looks at him one more time and at Roger’s _very_ quick nod, he starts to slowly sink down.

Roger can only hold onto John for dear life in an effort to not buck up his hips as a very tight heat seems to take over and light up every single nerve in Roger’s body. It almost overwhelms him.

Roger opens his eyes as John bottoms out and sees his eyes screwed tight, breathing deeply through his nose as he gets used to the feeling. Roger gently runs his fingertips up and down John’s sides and tries not to wince at the way John’s fingers are digging into his shoulders. This part clearly doesn’t feel all that nice for John, and while Roger is sure it’s all just par for the course and it’ll get better in a minute, he decides to try something that’s always worked to make John relax.

“How many people you reckon have shagged on this couch before you moved in?” Roger asks suddenly.

John snaps his eyes open and looks at Roger, stunned for a moment before he bursts out in laughter. Bingo.

“Is that really what you’re thinking about right now?” John says. Roger can already feel the tension leaving his body, so he keeps it up.

“I’m just saying!” Roger exclaims. “Think we’re the only ones too lazy to make it to the bed?”

“I’m sure this couch has seen far worse than us,” John says, plucking at the cushion behind Roger.

“You think?” Roger asks before he grabs the nape of John’s neck and drags him in for a kiss that quickly grows heated. After a few moments, he can feel John start to rock against him, so he pulls away and murmurs in his ear, “Bet we could change that.”

He hears John’s breathy laugh and a moment later John lifts his hips up and drops back down and a sharp jolt of pleasure skitters up Roger’s spine, punching a moan from deep in his chest. Roger’s stomach flips at the little grin John gives him before he does it again. Roger hears another moan escape his lips as that electric sizzle rips right through him.

John braces his knees and starts slowly bouncing in Roger’s lap, up and down in the most lewd lap dance of Roger’s life. John is flushed all the way down his chest and a few marks are forming near his collarbone where Roger sucked a little too hard. His short fringe is starting to curl at his temples where a sheen of sweat glistens against his skin. His face is absolutely overrun with pleasure; his eyes closed tight and his red-bitten lips parted, letting out short, shuddering moans in time with the drop of his hips. The sight is absolutely obscene and feeds the carnal desire brewing in Roger’s gut, slowly overtaking every single inch of him.

For a moment, Roger is overwhelmed with it all. Like he doesn’t deserve to see this side of John. But that feeling quickly disappears when John opens his eyes again and looks directly at Roger. There’s something hiding behind his look that Roger can’t quite place. It slightly intimidates him and that only adds to the thrill.

“It’s good, yeah?” John asks, and Roger realizes the look is one of extreme self-satisfaction.

For a second Roger’s brain short-circuits. He’s always known that John is a snarky little shit, but he never expected it to come out in bed, and he _never_ expected to find it _this_ hot.

“You already know it is,” Roger manages to say. John bites down on his lip and fucking _shrugs_.

“I do.”

Roger damn near loses his mind at that.

“ _Fuck_ , Deaky.”

Roger grabs onto John’s waist and pulls him down onto his cock as he thrusts up into him. John lets out a choked sob, the same noise he made when Roger was fingering him, and Roger realizes he’s found the spot. So he does it again. And again until John is all but collapsed onto him, mindlessly licking into Roger’s mouth and pulling on Roger’s hair, their moans getting lost in between heaving breaths and sloppy kisses. 

“Get on your back,” Roger manages to get out. John blindly nods and pulls off, scrabbling to lie down and practically dragging Roger on top of him. Roger pushes John’s knee towards his chest and wraps the other leg high on his waist before he quickly sinks back into John.

Roger braces his hand against the arm of the couch and fucks into John with abandon, chasing after that release they’re both begging for, the silver chains of Roger’s necklace swinging wildly between them with every thrust. John scratches his nails down Roger’s back, babbling out a symphony of _don’t stop_ and _oh, God_ and _please, please, fuck!_ right into Roger’s ear, his breath and his words and the vibrations of his voice filling up Roger’s head like a helium balloon and making him high off it.

He can feel John’s legs start to shake and hears his moans turn into ragged, broken sounds and he knows John is close. Roger shoves a hand in between them and starts jerking him off, matching his thrusts to tip John over the edge.

“ _Fuck!_ ” John throws his head back, his hair fanning out around him making him look like a saint trapped in ecstasy. “Rog, I’m--”

“Come on, Deaky,” Roger rasps out, changing his angle slightly to hit John’s prostate dead on. “Let me see you.”

John’s nails dig into Roger’s back and his leg falls away from Roger’s waist as he arches his back and paints his own chest in white. Roger fucks him through his orgasm, stringing out that delicious wave washing over John for as long as possible.

The feel of John spasaming around him and the sight of John’s fucked out face as he comes down is enough to push Roger headfirst into his own release. He quickly pulls out and starts jerking himself, but John’s hand fumbles between them, batting his away and taking over. 

With John’s large, skillful hand around him, Roger’s vision whites out and he adds to the mess on John’s chest with a low groan, the muscles in his back tightening as the shockwaves pulse in his core. John slows his hand to a stop when Roger winces at the overstimulation.

Roger clenches his hands around the couch cushions, focusing on the way John is tracing circles on his hips as he catches his breath.

“Fuckin’ hell, Deaky,” Roger says as the cloud clears from his head.

“Fuckin’ _hell_ , Deaky,” he says again when he opens his eyes and catches sight of John’s torso, glistening with the mix of their cum splattered together like a pornographic modern art piece. He looks up to see John with a bemused smile on his face. “You are the hottest thing I have ever seen.”

“Oh, God,” John groans and covers his face. Roger can see his cheeks turning red under his hands.

“Oh, no,” Roger says, playfully pulling John’s hands away from his face. “You don’t get to act all shy on me now. Not after _that_.”

John flushes a deeper shade of red, but he doesn’t fight against Roger’s loose grasp. He presses his lips against a smile, clearly trying to hide that little hint of self-satisfaction still left over in his eye.

“Can you make yourself useful and get me a rag or something?” John says, though there is no bite behind his words.

“I _suppose_.” Roger heaves an over dramatic sigh before leaning over and rooting through the pile of discarded clothes on the ground.

“Here,” Roger says, handing over John’s shirt.

John almost starts to wipe down his chest when he realizes what’s in his hand. “This is silk, you heathen!”

“Exactly!” Roger exclaims, seeing how much he can wind John up. “Only the best for you.”

John balls up his shirt and throws it at Roger’s face, who catches it before it actually falls into the sticky mess on John’s stomach.

“I hate you sometimes,” John says, though his laugh suggests the opposite.

“I’ll be back in a second,” Roger says, leaning down to kiss John’s cheek before getting up off the couch. Of all things, that’s what makes John blush the most.

***

“Deaks.”

Roger’s voice drifts in through the fog in John’s head. Between the alcohol and the sex and Roger’s fingers absentmindedly playing through his hair, John is very quickly dozing off.

“Hm?” John musters without picking his head up from Roger’s lap.

“I was thinking…”

“What about?” John prompts when Roger goes silent. He feels Roger’s hand still in his hair before Roger starts to speak again.

“I was thinking that if we’re gonna do this, I… I want to do it proper.”

John pushes up onto his hands to look at Roger. “What do you mean ‘proper’?”

“I dunno, like proper.” Roger waves his hands around as if that’ll explain what he’s trying to say. John’s confusion must read all over his face because next thing, Roger stares straight ahead at John’s bed across the room and says, exasperated, “I wanna… I wanna take you out on a date or something.”

Immediately, John’s heart drops. This is it. In the back of his mind, John knew it was coming. This is the moment Roger sees what it really entails to be with another man. This is the moment he decides it’s not worth it.

John attempts to take a deep breath, but he hardly gets anything into his lungs.

“Roger, we… we can’t,” he says quietly, almost scared to let his words be heard.

Roger pulls a face and turns to look at John. “And why not?”

John can’t hold in a scoff. “I’m sorry, do you _want_ to get your head bashed in?”

“Oh, come on, it’s not like we have to announce that we’re fucking at the hostess stand,” Roger says with a frankly overdramatic wave of his hands.

“Rog…”

“Listen.” Roger softens. He picks up John’s hand. “I’ll pick somewhere casual; we’ll just look like two mates grabbing a bite. How many times have we gone to eat before, yeah? It’ll look no different.”

John looks up from his hand where Roger has taken to playing with his fingers. He looks into Roger’s eyes; searching for what, though, he doesn’t know. “You’re serious?”

“Yes,” Roger says.

John can’t help but crack a smile. “You’re seriously serious?”

Roger’s own smile spreads across his face.

“Yes,” Roger repeats, crawling into John’s lap and holding his face between his hands so his head is tilted up as Roger’s hair falls in a curtain around them. “I’ll wine and dine you over a greasy basket of fish and chips. I’ll even have you home at a respectable hour like a proper gentleman and everything.”

“You know,” John says, running his hands down Roger’s back over the knit jumper Roger borrowed from him. “If you really wanted ‘proper’, you probably should have waited until after the first date to shag.”

“Oi!” Roger exclaims before leaning in close. “Be nice or I’m making you pay.”

Roger almost closes the gap between them, but a loud popping and crackling sound causes both of them to jump. John laughs as Roger presses his chest into his face to lean over the back of the couch and peek through the blinds.

When Roger leans back up, he turns around and looks at the clock on the wall. John’s heart skips a beat and he holds his breath when he realizes what Roger is doing. Seconds pass like hours as John stares at the shiny, tangled mop of Roger’s hair, unable to look at the clock. 

Then, the hair turns into a pair of big blue eyes as Roger turns back around. John feels Roger’s warm hand on his cheek and in the next moment, Roger’s soft lips cover his. The fireworks and the Led Zeppelin album Roger made him put on fade away into the background as John steps into 1973 in his tiny little flat with his best friend in his lap.

He has to press his lips together to keep a dopey grin off his face when Roger pulls away. Judging by the look in Roger’s eye, though, he didn’t do a great job at suppressing it.

“Happy new year, Deaks,” Roger says softly, and out of everything that happened tonight, that is what has John floating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been long enough they deserved to fuck :)


	13. Pull My Hair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rated M!

“I’m bloody exhausted.” John slumps onto the couch next to Roger. After five hours in the studio - preceded by a full day of classes no less - John can’t deny that the long days are getting to him.

“Yeah?” John hears behind him as he digs in his bag for his textbook.

“It’s the beginning of term and I’ve already got a paper due next week,” John says, leaning back on the couch and balancing his textbook and loose leaf in his lap. “Explain to me why I’ve got to write a paper for an engineering degree of all things.”

Roger chuckles. “Don’t miss those days.”

John playfully kicks Roger’s leg.

He hunches over his books and does his best to block out Brian’s guitar solo playing in a loop over the speakers, Freddie’s conversation with their producer, and Roger’s incessant bouncing of his leg that’s practically shaking the entire couch. Usually he’d have no problem concentrating, but he’s tired and he has a headache and it’s two in the morning and he has an 8 AM class tomorrow - shit, today - and the numbers on the page are starting to look like Greek letters and the letters look like sanskrit and finally, with a groan, John gives up and flops forward, putting his forehead on his knees and letting his arms hang down like a ragdoll.

The couch stops bouncing and John can feel Roger slightly shift beside him, so he turns his head - his bony knee digging painfully into his cheekbone - and opens his eyes to find Roger folded over his own knees looking at John with a bemused grin.

“What are you doing next Saturday?” Roger asks.

John frowns. He was very happily pouting and he believes that should at least earn him an _“are you okay?”_ but he’s too tired to put up any sort of fight about it.

“We’re off, yeah?” John replies.

“Yeah.”

“Then nothing, I suppose.”

“Good,” Roger says, lowering his voice. “Be ready at five, I’ll pick you up.”

“What?” John frowns again before his eyes widen. “ _Oh._ O-okay.”

Frankly, he thought Roger had forgotten all about it. It’s been a few weeks since Roger had brought up the idea of a date and neither of them have said anything about it since. Something warm flutters in John’s stomach and he can’t even find it in himself to be annoyed at Roger’s prideful smirk for having caught him off guard.

“Rog, I need your opinion.” Freddie’s voice cuts through the air and makes John jump a little; he quickly checks to see if he’s looking their way, but luckily all of his focus is on something on the mixing desk.

Roger shoots him a wink before getting up to see what Freddie needs. John pushes himself back up and buries his face in his textbook to hide his burning cheeks.

***

Roger turns around and checks out his bum in Freddie’s standing mirror, satisfied with the way his patchwork jeans and heeled boots lift it up. 

He should honestly feel more nervous than he does. First dates are supposed to be jittery and nerve wracking, but for him, it’s where his strengths lie. He’s good at the chase, he’s good at sweeping people off their feet. And he’s already got John, so in his opinion, there’s nothing to stress about.

“What are you doing in here?”

“Fuck!” Roger almost jumps out of his skin and snaps his head around to see Freddie in the doorway. He wasn’t supposed to be home yet. “Freddie, don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“This is _my_ room!” Freddie exclaims.

“I just needed to use your mirror,” Roger says, turning back to the mirror as Freddie sidles up behind him. He keeps his focus on himself and starts to adjust things that have already been adjusted. His heart wasn’t racing before but it sure as hell is now.

“You look nice.”

“Ta.” Roger fixes his chain, returning the clasp back to the back of his neck.

Freddie simply purses his lips. “Smell nice, too.”

“New cologne.” Roger pretends to debate whether to keep his top button open or closed. In the end, he keeps it open and undoes the one below for good measure.

“And who are you getting all dressed up for?”

_And there it is._

“Got a date,” Roger answers honestly. He sees Freddie’s eyes light up before he turns and brushes past him to return to the common room.

“Really?” Freddie calls, following out of the bedroom. “With who?”

“No one you know,” Roger lies easily.

“And when will I get to meet this mystery person?” Freddie persists.

_Fuck._

“Hm,” is all Roger says to that question, because at least for now, he doesn’t really know the answer himself.

He grabs his keys and his wallet off of the coffee table. He checks his watch. 4:00. Looks like he’ll be early for maybe the first time in his life, but he refuses to stay for a game of twenty questions.

“Alright, well don’t forget we have the photoshoot tomorrow morning.”

“I won’t forget,” Roger says, shrugging on his coat.

“It’s at 9:00.”

“I know.” Roger unlocks the deadbolt.

“And you’re picking up Deaky.”

Roger rolls his eyes. “Yes, mum.”

Freddie smacks the back of Roger’s head at that.

“Ow!”

“Bitch,” Freddie grumbles.

Roger can’t help the affectionate laugh that escapes him. 

“See you tomorrow,” Roger says as he opens the door.

“You’re not coming home?”

Roger winks. “Not if it goes well.”

***

A knock at the front door interrupts John’s primping. He exits his bathroom and checks his watch, half expecting his neighbor to be at the door complaining that his music is too loud again. So it’s a slight shock when instead of a disgruntled fine arts student, he finds Roger waiting in the hall at a quarter past four.

And like he wasn’t already shitting bricks before, with Roger before him all cocky in an infuriatingly hot outfit wearing an infuriatingly hot smirk, it’s even worse now. 

“You’re early,” John blurts out.

Roger raises his eyebrows. “Are you surprised?”

“Very,” John says, moving aside to let Roger in. “I’m almost ready, just give me a second.”

Roger makes himself at home on John’s couch, one foot up on the coffee table, while John searches through the ridiculously large collection of shoes piled carelessly in front of his wardrobe. He remembers a day when they used to be all lined up in a neat row in front of the fireplace. That day is long gone.

He can practically feel Roger’s amused eyes on him as he holds up different pairs of boots and trainers against his pants trying to decide on the best pair.

“Don’t look at me like you didn’t do the exact same thing before you came here,” John says.

“I’m not doing anything!” Roger exclaims and John tries and fails to side-eye him, instead huffing a laugh when he catches Roger’s eye.

He finally settles on a pair of black leather boots and pulls them on. He kicks a few shoes out of the way and perches on the arm of his couch as he looks in his wardrobe for a jacket. He uses the moment to try and swallow down his mounting nerves.

John wrestles out a coat from his overstuffed wardrobe and turns off his record player and they are out the door. The pair walk through the nearby park in the rapidly darkening evening as Roger leads them to whatever date spot he’s picked out.

John does his best to chat as they always do because it’s _just_ Roger, but he keeps finding himself going quiet, tacking on his nervous _“you know’s”_ to the end of every sentence, and laughing breathily like he’s talking to some stranger and not his best friend. And the worst part is, he knows Roger notices.

By the time they get to the restaurant - a small Italian mom and pop shop nestled in between a dingy pub and a used bookstore - John is about ready to give Roger a medal for carrying their conversation on his back the entire walk.

“I know it’s not the fish and chips I promised, but…” Roger trails off as he opens the door and leads them out of the biting winter chill. 

“It’s better,” John says with a little smile.

It’s not just better, it’s absolutely perfect. John observes the restaurant with relief as the old woman at the hostess stand leads them to a booth at the back. It’s clearly a family restaurant complete with paper tablecloths and cooks yelling at each other in the back kitchen and Frank Sinatra playing just a touch too loud over the speakers. It’s fairly full, but not crowded. They walk past tables of families, some older couples, and even a booth with a gaggle of uni girls laughing loudly over garlic bread and pizza.

There’s no dim, romantic lighting, no candles on the tables, and no snooty waiters with cocktail menus in hand. In short, John thinks as he accepts the oversized laminated menu from the hostess, it’s not a date spot.

John hides his nose in the menu for a few moments after the hostess leaves to send in their drink orders before the butterflies settle enough that he thinks he can speak without making more of a fool of himself.

“How did you find this place?” John asks, fiddling absentmindedly with the paper napkin underneath his scratched and scuffed utensils.

“I used to come here with Bri and Tim after practice sometimes.” Roger leans his arms on the table and lightly raps his knuckles against the surface, a little bit of delight sparkling his eyes. “Did I do good?”

“Yeah,” John says softly, tucking his hair behind his ear and biting on his lower lip against the goofy smile that threatens to take over. “You did.”

Roger’s smile grows wider and it’s all John can do to not hide behind the menu again.

***

Once the waitress takes their food orders and their menus, Roger grabs his drink and sits back in the booth. He props one foot up on the seat of the booth and rests his leg on the edge of the table.

Roger watches as John tears at his napkin and rolls the pieces into little balls. He’s seen this nervous habit come out quite a few times by now, much to the dismay of any paper or wrappers or tissues nearby when John gets like this. But right now, it reminds him so much of the first time he watched John make his little snowballs - back at that fish and chips shop almost two years ago - that it almost makes him want to laugh.

“What’s wrong?” Roger asks.

John snaps back to earth. “Huh?”

Roger simply nods at the abused napkin and gives John a knowing look.

“Oh,” John says. He drops the napkin and smooths the little bit he has left over his lap before waving off Roger’s question.

“You’re shit at acting aloof, you know,” Roger teases.

“Am not,” John says and okay, Roger can concede that point. But that doesn’t change the fact that John hasn’t acted this shy towards Roger since the first few weeks they knew each other.

Before Roger can press further, John rolls his eyes and speaks up again and Roger notices a little bit of pink spread across his cheeks.

“It’s just… I haven’t, uh, I haven’t actually been on a date since my girlfriend back in secondary school,” John says, picking up one of the paper balls and rolling it between his fingers. “And even those were more awkward group hangouts than anything.”

“Really?” Roger asks, not expecting that admission. John’s eyes narrow and he squashes the ball between his fingers.

“Don’t look so shocked. I already told you it’s not something we can _really_ do,” John’s words are sharp, but then he casts his eyes down to the table and tacks on a mumbled, “And nothing ever lasted long enough anyway.”

Something tugs inside of Roger’s chest before he puts on a smile and nudges John’s foot with his own. “Well, lucky for you, you’re with an expert.”

That seems to do the trick. When John lifts his eyes again, the storm brewing inside of them evaporates.

“An expert?” John raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, stick with me, kid, you’ll go far,” Roger says, putting on his best Don Corleone impression, which to be honest, is borderline unrecognizable. It makes John laugh all the same - the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and shows off the gap in his teeth - and Roger can’t bring himself to care if he’s laughing at him or at the joke.

“So tell me, expert,” John says, leaning up on the table and nodding towards Roger’s slouched posture and bent knee. “Is that how people sit on first dates? Cause it doesn’t look very proper to me.”

“Git.” Roger chuckles and puts his foot back on the floor, making a show of sitting up straight.

The rest of the dinner goes better than Roger could have ever asked. John finally shakes off whatever nerves were swirling around in his head and soon they’re back to their normal conversation of making fun of the studio execs and gossipping about Brian’s love life. The food comes out and toes that perfect line between “greasy” and “grandma’s cooking” that just hits the spot. Roger even manages to charm the waitress out of her pen so he and John can play Hangman on the paper tablecloth; and he only feels slightly embarrassed that the same waitress will see the very mature word choices (if anyone asks, he’ll say that “butthole” was _definitely_ John’s word) they’re giggling manically over. And in the end, John only puts up a minimal fight when Roger doesn’t let him split the tab.

All in all, Roger thinks as he leads the way back out of the restaurant, he’s still got it.

***

The sun is fully set and night has taken over as Roger walks side by side with John back through the park. The path skirts a large frozen pond that muddies the streetlamps in its scuffed reflection.

Roger fiddles with his half-burned cigarette, knocking off the ash onto the path as they walk in comfortable silence. The two find themselves closer and closer until Roger can feel the press of John’s shoulder against his. The backs of their hands brush. Roger moves his hand to catch John’s and tangle their fingers together.

John snatches his hand away like he’s been burned.

A sharp stab akin to shock and shame pierces through Roger’s chest.

John sucks in a breath as he looks around at the others on the path. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it-- I forgot,” Roger says quickly.

Roger flexes his hand and puts some space between them. The people around them come into clear focus - the old lady with her snappy yorkie, the young couple cozied together, brushing their noses as they giggle softly, the group of blokes in Wasps jerseys pushing each other down the path.

“It’s shit, I know.”

“John, it’s alright, I--”

“I hate it,” John says almost to himself before looking at Roger. In the dim streetlamps, Roger can see a melancholy in John’s eyes that breaks his heart a little. Roger simply nods.

“I hate hiding,” John continues. “It’s so bloody loney, but… you know.”

John huffs a breath with a sad smile on his lips and Roger feels the strongest urge to wrap him up tight in his arms and never let him go. The force of it shocks him. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, so he takes a drag from his cigarette and shrugs.

“Well, you have me now at least,” Roger says, wincing at the bit of helplessness he hears in his own voice. “I may not be the best choice of company, but…”

“Oh, no, you’re horrid,” John mercifully teases, veering things back into lighter territory. “What did I ever do to deserve getting stuck with half of London’s wet dream?”

Roger chokes around his cigarette, smoke pouring out of his lungs when he lets out a shocked laugh. “Deaky!”

John shoots him a pleased smile and the two fall back into silence as they make their way out of the park. Roger discards his cigarette in the ashtray by the park entrance and mulls over his thoughts as they cross the street and start the last few blocks to John’s flat.

The secrecy, the hiding - it’s all things Roger has never had to worry about before. And to see John shoulder it without a second thought, like it’s all he’s ever known - because it _is_ all he’s ever known, Roger realizes - hurts him in a way he didn’t expect.

It also puts thoughts into his head that sicken him. It’s been on his mind for a while now, and he always manages to stuff it down, but tonight his voice moves faster than his brain.

“Can I ask a question?” Roger breaks the silence. “And you don’t have to answer it.”

John looks at him and furrows his brow. “Go ahead.”

“Have you ever, um,” Roger says; his words feel heavy in his mouth. “Have you ever been…”

“Been what?” John sets his mouth in a tight line and tension creeps into his neck and shoulders which finally pushes Roger to just get out with it.

“Bashed?”

Even as he says it, he’s not sure if he’s ready to hear the answer.

“Oh,” John breathes.

“It’s just,” Roger starts, attempting to justify the intrusive question, “you’ve brought it up a few times, so--”

“No,” John finally answers with a shake of his head. “I haven’t.”

Roger narrows his eyes. “You haven’t brought it up or you haven’t been bashed? ‘Cause you’ve definitely said--” 

“Been bashed,” John clarifies quickly.

“I’ve been harassed plenty - outside the disco particularly,” John says with a wave of his hand as if it’s normal. “One time this bloke even grabbed my hair, threatened to cut it off before his mates finally stepped in - that was pretty scary, I’ll admit. But nothing worse than that.”

Roger feels ice rush through his veins.

“I’ve been lucky,” John adds quietly.

“ _That’s_ lucky?” Roger says incredulously.

“It is what it is.” John shrugs, his face held in a neutral expression that Roger knows to be performative - hiding a type of exhaustion no 21-year-old should have to carry - and all at once Roger understands Freddie’s fierce protectiveness over their youngest bandmate because the same instinct hits him like a freight train.

“I’ll kill ‘em all,” Roger mutters, mostly to himself, but John still picks up on his words.

“You can’t change them,” John says simply.

“Don’t need to change them if they’re in the ground.”

“Yeah, alright, macho man.” John chuckles and nudges Roger with his shoulder.

Roger wants to say more, but it’s obvious that John wants to drop the conversation, so he stuffs down his thoughts and playfully shoulders John back, keeping his hands firmly inside his coat pockets.

***

Roger drags John’s bottom lip through his teeth, his hooded eyes lustful as John blinks up at him, before moving to trail little bites all the way down John’s neck leaving him breathless and dizzy. John lets his head fall back between his shoulders; his hair pools beneath him on his bed where he props himself up on his elbows. 

He can’t stop the shuddered moan that escapes his lips when Roger starts to mouth at the sensitive spot right above his collarbone. How Roger figured out that is his weak spot, he doesn’t know, but it’s definitely become Roger’s preferred place to suck and bite when he wants to pull a reaction out of John. And John doesn’t hold back. He rolls his hips against the thigh shoved between his legs, letting Roger feel just how affected he is.

John smirks when in response, Roger grabs the back of his head and pulls him into a sloppy kiss. He can’t help but grind onto Roger’s thigh, his moans muffling in Roger’s mouth. The taste of Roger’s tongue against his and the feel of Roger’s fingers in his hair scratching lightly against his scalp send sparks through his body and only adds to the red-hot light burning bright in his abdomen. 

“Pull it,” John mutters against Roger’s lips.

Roger moves back slightly. “Are you sure?”

John giggles. “Yes, I’m sure.”

John reaches up and places his hand at the nape of Roger’s neck to pull him back down. He can feel Roger’s hand tighten in his hair, but he doesn’t get the sharp tug he’s asking for. Roger hasn’t had any qualms pulling at John’s hair up until now, so his hesitance has John pulling away again.

“Is everything okay?” John asks.

“Yeah,” Roger says, letting out an unsure laugh. “Yeah, of course it is.”

John can feel Roger’s fingers loosen, then tighten, and then loosen again. John sighs. “Is this about what I told you earlier?”

The pained expression that passes over Roger’s face tells John all he needs to know.

“Rog.” John sits up as Roger’s hand falls away from his hair. He draws his knees under himself to get eye-level with Roger when he sits back on his heels. “Listen to me.” 

John places his hands against Roger’s chest. He rubs his thumb back and forth over the smooth skin until Roger looks at him and gives a short nod.

“That happened a while ago, and I’m okay. And you’re not some drunk arsehole outside of a club, you’re my--” John presses his lips together and aborts before the next word slips out of his mouth. He casts his eyes to the side and takes a breath before he looks back at Roger. “I trust you. Okay?” 

Roger turns his head to the side and nods. “Okay.”

John presses his fingers against Roger’s cheek to turn his face back towards him. “Do you believe me?”

Roger finally cracks a smile, but not without an eye roll.

“Yes, you wanker, I believe you.”

“Good.” John huffs a laugh before he leans in for a kiss. He wraps one arm around Roger’s shoulders while the other drags down his torso, drawing a shudder out of the other man. He presses in as close as he can, his knees bracketing one of Roger’s legs as Roger’s hands fall onto his hips.

“Now, please just fuck me already,” John says against Roger’s lips.

“Insatiable, aren’t you?” Roger teases, already guiding John backwards.

“Are you complaining?” John sasses back once he gets his legs out from under him and settles onto the bed.

Roger just shakes his head and laughs before leaning up to grab the lube where they left it on the mantle a few nights ago. John can’t help but reach up and tweak a nipple, making Roger jump in surprise.

“Oi!”

John laughs as he smooths his hand back down Roger’s side. “How do you want me?”

“Just like this, Deaks,” Roger says softly, running his fingers through the brown hair splayed out on the pillow. John’s breath catches at the tenderness and all he can do is nod before Roger leans down to kiss him again, gentle and sure.

Roger never does pull John’s hair: not when he kisses over John’s chest as he rubs a finger over his entrance, not when John bites down on his shoulder to hold back a particularly loud moan when he finds his prostate, not when John swipes the lube from him and strokes him to full hardness. Though John’s mind is foggy with pleasure, that fact doesn’t escape him.

John wraps his legs around Roger’s waist and Roger presses in slowly. John sighs as Roger places soft kisses down his neck as he gets used to the fullness. Roger brings an arm behind John’s shoulder and holds him impossibly close as he slowly thrusts into him and John feels like his ribs are about to burst open.

They’ve had sex plenty this past month and it’s always been fun and playful, much like their entire friendship. But this feels different. Roger is handling him like he might break, kissing him like he might disappear, holding him like he might float away.

John wraps his hands around Roger’s back and digs his nails in - not because of the dull, delicious pleasure building in his hips, but because there is _something_ warming his entire chest and he needs to let it out somehow or he just might cry.

Roger changes his angle and John lets out a sharp moan, pressing his head back into the pillow as a jolt of electricity sparks through the dull fire building inside his body.

“That’s it, Deaky,” Roger whispers into his ear as he releases one of his hands from around his back to wedge in between their bodies and start stroking John, drawing his impending orgasm ever-closer.

Roger’s name falls off of John’s lips almost like a breath. He brings his hands up to Roger’s shoulders and holds on tight as small moans are punched out of him with every thrust. Roger’s breath clouds his head and Roger’s weight tethers him to earth and the hot light inside of him burns brighter and brighter and it almost becomes overwhelming as John figures out that “something” he feels is _safe_.

He grips onto Roger’s shoulders even tighter and buries his face in his neck, unable to stop it as he falls apart piece by piece.

“I’ve got you, John,” Roger says, his voice gravelly in his ear. “I’ve got you, let go. Let go for me.”

John sobs out a moan and bites down lightly on the junction between Roger’s neck and shoulder as he shatters in Roger’s arms. He’s vaguely aware of his head falling back against the pillow as the dimming shockwaves pulse through his body and leave him spent.

Just as he begins to come to his senses, John can feel Roger move to pull out like he always does. 

“No,” John says, tightening his legs around Roger’s waist. “In me.”

“You’re sure?”

“Please,” John whispers.

John moves his hands to Roger’s face and pulls him down into a desperate kiss. He swallows down Roger’s low groan and gasps as Roger fills him, the sensation foreign and unexpectedly pleasant. John threads his fingers through Roger’s hair and holds him close as he rides out his orgasm.

Roger collapses down on top of John, ignoring the sticky mess between them. John lets his legs fall onto the bed and he gently cards his fingers through Roger’s hair and they catch their breath.

Neither talk about what the hell just happened, opting only to smile shyly at each other as Roger pulls away to grab them a washcloth from the bathroom. Once they’re cleaned up and John’s legs stop feeling like jelly, he slips on a pair of underpants and climbs under the covers, instantly wrapping his arm around Roger once he joins him.

John listens to the rise and fall of Roger’s breaths as Roger plays with the ends of his hair. He lifts his head up and brushes his nose with Roger’s. In the darkness, he can just make out Roger’s smile before he leans down for a chaste kiss. When John pulls away and lays his head on Roger’s chest, he decides they don’t need to talk about it; they understand each other perfectly.

***

John wakes up to sunlight in his face, a hard wall against his back, and Roger’s soft body against his front. He blinks his eyes a few times and picks his head up, trying to bring the room into focus. At some point in the night, it looks like they shifted in John’s too-small bed so that he ended up half on top of Roger to avoid getting pressed even further into the unforgiving wall.

John drops his head back onto Roger’s chest, ignoring the crick in his neck that is sure to pester him all day. He lazily stares at the light shining through his blinds and listens to Roger’s steady heartbeat beneath him as wakefulness begins to clear the fog in his mind.

He draws random shapes on Roger’s chest, feeling the few wispy hairs beneath his fingers. He is tempted to close his eyes again and drift back to sleep, content to stay there all day--

John scrambles up onto his hands and checks the watch he forgot to take off last night.

“Shit!”

John throws the covers off of him and clambers over Roger, his feet hitting the cold floor with the grace and poise of a drunk elephant.

“Rog.” John shakes the stubbornly sleeping man. “Roger, wake up.”

Roger weakly bats John’s hand away and mutters something unintelligible as he tries to pull the blankets back up around him. John rips the covers out of his hands and shakes him again. 

“Deaky, what the--”

“Rog, we’re late,” John says.

“What?” Roger’s voice is croaky with sleep.

“We’re _late_.” John shakes him one more time to ensure he won’t go back to sleep before he moves across the room and grabs his gig back from under the couch.

John throws open his wardrobe and starts stuffing the clothes and platforms Freddie had picked out into his bag. He looks over towards the bed to see Roger has hardly managed to get himself into a sitting position.

“It’s 9:15, you berk, get out of bed!” John exclaims, throwing Roger his shirt that was discarded near the coffee table the night before.

Roger blinks at him for a moment before his eyes widen.

“Shit!”

Roger jumps out of bed and throws his shirt on, only doing up two buttons before swiping his jeans off the floor and hopping into them. In the flurry, John throws on his own jeans, jumper, and trainers, barely remembering to brush his teeth before they’re out the door.

“Freddie’s going to kill us,” John says once they pile into Roger’s van.

“You say that as if he isn’t spending at least thirty minutes in ‘hair and makeup’.” Roger chuckles.

John shoots him a look and Roger just grabs John’s hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze before moving back to put the van in gear. The drive back to Roger’s flat is quick and John’s knuckles definitely aren’t white from gripping the door handle the entire ride.

The two race up the main staircase and burst into the flat, only to stop short at the sight in front of them.

The entire common area is in chaos. One of the armchairs sits in the corner by Freddie’s bedroom door while the rest of the lounge room furniture is piled against the half-wall separating the kitchen and living room. It looks like every available fabric and cushion in the flat - including what John recognizes to be Roger’s bedding - is piled around the chair. John has to hold back a laugh at the fleeting thought that this is Freddie’s revenge for Roger stealing his bedding.

There are two people in the room John doesn’t recognize. One is setting up some lights, crossing wires over the floor in a way that has John wanting to whack them over the head with a safety manual and the other is standing by a camera speaking to Freddie. John hears the scream of a kettle and peers into the kitchen to see Brian making tea.

John wonders if all photoshoots are this hectic. If so, he’s not looking forward to a possible future full of cameras.

“Fred, what the hell have you done to our lounge?” Roger practically yells, finally drawing the attention their way.

Freddie wheels around from his conversation with the photographer and looks directly at Roger.

“You’re late,” he deadpans.

“Sorry, my fault,” John swoops in, clutching tighter to the strap of his gig bag. “I forgot to set my alarm.”

“Oh. Well, that’s alright, dear,” Freddie says, walking towards them. John can see Roger throw his hands up in exasperation out of the corner of his eye. “Just go get ready.”

Roger turns on his heel and heads to his room, grumbling something along the way. John adjusts the bag on his shoulder and turns to follow him, but Freddie catches his arm before he can leave.

“Wait one second,” Freddie says before he grabs a foundation compact off of the clutter on the kitchen counter. “Might be a little dark, but here.”

“What do I need this for?” John asks, grabbing the compact. Freddie had promised him no makeup.

Freddie simply raises his eyebrow and points to the spot on John’s collarbone that Roger was favoring the night before. John pales.

“Oh,” John laughs weakly. “Went to a disco last night. Wanted to blow off some stress, you know?”

“I don’t need to know the dirty details, darling,” Freddie says gently, waving him off to go change and now apparently cover up a damn hickey.

John takes a deep breath and walks away from the mayhem into Roger’s room. He carefully closes and locks the door behind him and throws his bag onto Roger’s bare mattress.

“Rog,” John says, crossing his arms.

“What?” Roger unhooks his blazer from the hanger and turns around.

John untucks one of his hands and points at the spot he knows is on his neck. Roger squints his eyes and walks close to John, no doubt to try and see what John is pointing at, before he breaks into a smile.

“Oh, shit, sorry about that.” Roger chuckles and strips off his shirt on his way to his dresser.

John rolls his eyes, perturbed at Roger’s nonchalance.

“Freddie noticed.”

“Okay,” Roger says without even turning around from the drawer he’s digging through.

“Okay?” John can’t keep the irritation out of his voice, but at least that seems to finally make Roger catch on that something is wrong.

“What’s the problem?” Roger asks, turning around with his tank top in hand.

“Freddie noticed!” John exclaims, just barely remembering to keep his voice down.

“Well, what did you tell him?” Roger asks before he throws the tank top on.

“I told him I went to the disco,” John says quietly.

“And?” Roger prompts, looking at John where he hasn’t moved since he stepped foot in Roger’s room.

“And that was that.”

“Alright, then why are you so pissy?” Roger asks, failing to see the problem.

John’s eyes narrow. “I’m not pissy.”

Roger can’t help but scoff and that was definitely the wrong thing to do because next thing he knows John lets out the most defeated sigh and casts his eyes down.

“Rog, this is what I mean when I say that this is never going to be normal,” John says to the ground.

“Deaks, seriously, what’s wrong?” Roger asks, concern entering his voice for the first time. “It’s just a hickey.”

“But it’s not!” John scrubs his face with his hands before he looks at Roger again.

“These slip ups, they just can’t happen. We are this close-- _this_ close to being a real, legitimate band with an album and a label and everything,” John says, his voice quiet but no less fierce, and that’s when it clicks for Roger that it really isn’t _just_ a hickey. And, yeah, he feels like a right dickhead.

“I mean, they’re even talking about music videos and tours,” John continues. “And all it takes is for a single wrong person to catch wind of what’s going on and the whole thing will come crashing down. I don’t know how many labels want to represent a band where the bassist is getting railed by the drummer--”

Roger decides to cut him off right there before he devolves into a tirade of stress and self-loathing. He takes the few steps back to John and gently grabs his arms. John stops talking, but he pointedly looks to the side.

“John. John, honey, look at me,” Roger says, taking John’s face in his hands and steamrolling right over the accidental slip of a pet name. If John noticed, he’s kind enough to pretend he didn’t.

“I understand. Hush,” Roger says gently, putting his thumb over John’s lips when he tries to speak. “Trust me, I understand. We both know how risky this is, you know that.

“I’m sorry about the hickey, I really am. I’ll be more careful from now on,” Roger says, using his other hand to smooth out John’s hair, still messy with bedhead. “But listen, this is not the end of the world. As far as anyone knows, sweet little Deaky just went and got laid last night. No one knows. And until we’re ready, no one will find out.”

“You can’t promise that,” John mumbles from beneath Roger’s thumb.

“I can and I will,” Roger says, looking in John’s eyes so he knows he means it.

John softens and playfully kisses Roger’s thumb before nodding.

“Good.” Roger smiles and takes his thumb off of John’s mouth. “Now we should probably get dressed before Freddie barges in here and reams us out.”

“Alright, babe.” John winks and snickers at Roger’s shocked face before quickly moving to his bag, leaving Roger alone in the middle of the room with a beet-red face.

“Arsehole,” Roger mutters just loud enough for John to hear, forcing down the smile that twitches on his lips when John laughs again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! It's been a hot minute. ngl this chapter was pretty challenging to write and it took me a while to finally get it exactly how I wanted it but its finally here! I hope you enjoyed it <3


	14. Two Simple Words

A year. That’s how long Roger is able to keep his promise: through the first album’s release and the second, through press shoots and interviews and dingy hotel rooms; through the time Freddie came home early and almost caught John in Roger’s lap to the time Roger accidentally called John “babe” in front of the others on a drunken night out. 

It’s a routine. One Roger never thought he would have to fall into, but he’s adapted nonetheless.

Too bad it's his own damn jealousy that ruins it all.

***

Roger sits at the bar of an overcrowded and overheated club, sipping on a sugary drink that tastes like it should be illegal. He rests his head in his hand, the exhaustion of the tour catching up with him. Brian sits next to him, rattling on about something, but Roger doesn’t pay attention.

His eyes trail over the dance floor, across a sea of anonymous people until he finds John at the edge of the crowd. Roger smiles; and he knows if anyone saw his face, he’d give himself away, but he’s just a bit too drunk to care. He can’t help it - not when John is wearing one of Roger’s crop tops that frankly looks far too good on him, sipping on something bubblegum pink and laughing with the girl that’s hanging off his neck trying to drunkenly teach him how to swing along with the brass band playing on stage.

Roger jumps when Brian smacks his arm and he rips his eyes away from John to face his very annoyed bandmate. “Are you listening to me?”

“No,” Roger says with a smile.

“And what’s got you so distracted?”

“Nothing, I…” Roger laughs as he turns his head to sneak another look at John, but the smile is wiped right off his face when he notices that the girl has disappeared and John’s space is crowded by a guy who is the walking definition of tall, dark and handsome. “Nothing.”

“Rog?” Brian says, but Roger barely hears him.

The bloke puts his hand on John’s exposed midriff and pulls him in. A pack hot, rusty nails rips right through Roger’s stomach as he watches his fingers squeeze down slightly on his boyfriend’s waist. John backs up and shakes his head a little too sweetly for Roger’s taste, his long hair shimmering under the blue and purple light as it moves with his declination. The bloke takes the hint and leaves, but not before leaning down and saying something against John’s ear that makes John _laugh_ and shoo him away with a smile on his face.

And that’s just one step too far for Roger.

“I need a smoke, I’ll be back,” Roger says as he hops off the stool, unsure and uncaring if Brian even hears him.

John’s smile brightens as Roger enters his sightline. All he wants to do is stick his hands in John’s back pockets and press their hips close together; maybe even suck on his neck for good measure. Maybe then the famous mystery man - who still hasn’t seemed to fuck off completely - would get the hint and go away. But since Roger can’t do any of that, he just puts a friendly hand on John’s arm and leans in close.

“I'm going outside for a smoke,” Roger says, raising his voice above the rollicking piano. “Want to come with me?”

“Yeah, sure.” 

John nods his head in the direction of the courtyard and Roger leads the way around the edge of the crowd, resisting the urge to put a hand on John’s lower back as they walk. John drains the rest of his drink and throws the plastic cup away on their way out the door.

The courtyard is quiet and dark. The stone fountain in the center does its best to spurt water out of its old pipes; the sputtering sounds echo off of the terracotta tile, blending and swirling with the raucous wail of the trumpet inside. Palm trees and bushes line the walls, turning the enclosed space into an oasis in the middle of the old city.

Roger walks to a recessed and darkened doorway at the opposite end of the courtyard, digging in his pocket for his cigarettes. He leans against the smooth stone wall and flicks on his lighter as John slumps opposite of him, his legs kicked out, the heel of his platforms digging into the grooves of the tile beneath them.

“My feet hurt,” John whines.

“No shit, you nearly danced yourself to death,” Roger says affectionately.

John laughs and takes a drag off of Roger’s cigarette. His eyes are sparkling and his cheeks are rosy from exertion and alcohol. 

“Found yourself a lot of partners, too.” Roger doesn’t mean to say it, but it slips out before he has a chance to stop it.

“Hardly,” John says, laughing as he hands the cigarette back to Roger. “Though I will say the tour guide was right - southerners are very friendly.”

“ _Very_ ,” Roger grits out.

Roger wants to let it go. He really _should_ let it go. But he’s not a perfect person, and he never claimed to be.

Before he can think too hard about it, Roger flicks the half-smoked cigarette to the ground and stamps it out. He pushes himself off of the wall and moves into John’s space, putting a leg between John’s and placing his hand on his waist. He runs his thumb over the warm skin there, erasing all traces of the other man’s touch. John casts a glance around the empty courtyard, but he doesn’t shy away. Roger takes the invitation and kisses along John’s jaw, brushing their noses together before he finally makes it to his lips.

After a moment, Roger feels John’s hands on his shoulders before his arms finally wrap around his neck. He dares to take it a little further, pressing in closer and running his tongue along John’s lips, but John breaks away.

“What has gotten into you?” John giggles as Roger moves his lips down to his neck.

“Hm?” Roger hums as he squeezes John’s waist. He’s mature enough to admit to himself that he’s acting like a possessive prick. He’s not mature enough to put a stop to it, though.

“Rog…” John sighs, melting in Roger’s arms before he tenses up. “Roger, we’re in public.”

“We’re in New Orleans, Deaks.” Roger chuckles. He knows he’s pushing it when he wraps his arm around John’s back and presses in closer, bringing his lips up to John’s ear. “If anything, people would just ask to join.”

“Rog-”

“No one’s coming out here, I promise,” Roger says, though in the back of his mind he wishes mystery man would stumble upon them.

Roger brushes their lips together again, but John presses a hand against his chest. Roger pulls back with a sigh.

“Seriously, what’s this about?” John asks.

Roger really, _really_ should let it go.

Instead, he smiles and runs his thumb across John’s bottom lip.

“Nothing, baby,” Roger almost coos. “I just wanted to remind you whose you are.”

John cocks his head to the side with a look of pure confusion on his face. He opens his mouth to speak but closes it again without saying anything. Roger wishes he would have said something. He’d much prefer that to what he actually gets: a single raised eyebrow and a steely stare that is typically reserved for patronizing producers and mouthy sound board operators.

Fuck.

“John, baby,” Roger starts but John is having none of it.

“Is this about that girl I was dancing with?” John cuts him off. “Are you joking? You know I wouldn’t-”

Roger scoffs like he can’t help it and that’s when it hits John; he uses the hand on Roger’s chest to push him back further.

John’s voice is foreign to his own ears when he says, “This is about that guy.”

Roger doesn’t need to answer. His silence speaks well enough for him.

“It is!” John exclaims, only retroactively realizing he should probably keep his voice down.

Roger flicks the fringe out of his eyes and crosses his arms. “And so what if it is?”

“Rog, I blew him off.” John can feel the fight brewing between them and he doesn’t care to try and diffuse it.

“Did you? Cause you seemed to really like whatever he said to you before he left.”

“I was being fucking polite,” John hisses. 

“Sure.”

“You know, it’s not like this is the first time someone’s tried to pick me up in the past year.”

“Yeah, but those were all women,” Roger says.

John goes cold.

“And what’s the difference?”

Roger rolls his eyes. “You _know_ the difference.”

“What, you don’t have to worry that I’m going to go and suck them off in the bathroom, is that it?” John exclaims, giving up any attempts to keep quiet.

“Christ, Deaky!” Roger rears back and John at least feels a bit better that Roger seems blindsided by the notion. “No! No, I’m just not used to this, okay? You know, with everyone else I’ve been with I could just go and stick my tongue down their throat and everyone gets the message pretty fucking quick, but with you I-”

“-Have to maybe put a little trust in me?”

“Would you just listen to me?” Roger snaps and John finally shuts his mouth.

John lets out a shaky breath as Roger tries to scrape together whatever point he’s been trying to poorly explain. He reaches out and grabs John’s hand, and the relief that floods John’s chest outweighs any lingering worry he may have about someone spotting them.

“We’re a- we’re a secret - and I get it,” Roger says carefully, fidgeting with John’s fingers. “I get why it has to be that way, but that doesn’t mean I like to sit back and watch while another man puts his hands on you. And, yes, I _know_ you won’t do anything, but the fact that I can’t just... it’s just hard, okay? It’s hard.”

“It’s hard for me, too,” John says, all of the fight leaving his body. Still, he can’t resist adding on a snarky, “You think I like watching you entertain all your _fans_?”

Roger looks up at him before he moves in close and drops his forehead onto John’s shoulder, refusing to let go of John’s hand.

“I’d show you off to the world if I could.”

John’s chest clenches painfully at the hopelessness in Roger’s voice, so he presses a kiss to the top of Roger’s head and tells him the same lie he tells himself when it all seems like too much.

“Maybe someday we can.”

John can’t resist bringing a hand up to cradle against Roger’s head. He hates the fact that his eyes dart around the empty courtyard, shoulders tensing at every sound, his gaze hopelessly drifting back to the door, just praying no one stumbles outside for a smoke or a drunken leak in the bushes.

“That was a dick move, by the way,” John finally says, breaking their delicate silence.

“I know.” Roger sighs as he picks his head back up. “I know. I’m- Do you… Are you ready to leave?”

“Yeah.” John straightens his clothes. “Yeah, let’s go.”

The pair make a half-hearted attempt to find their bandmates before they decide it’s useless - Brian has disappeared from his spot at the bar and Freddie is long gone. Roger calls off their valiant search and leads them through the crowd so they can just get back to the hotel and crash. His guiding hand is a gentle press against John’s lower back before it is quickly removed and becomes a friendly clap on his shoulder.

***

“So when were you going to tell us you’re fucking Deaky?”

Roger drops the eyeliner in his hand, the makeup creating a brown smudge on the counter. He fumbles to pick the pencil back up, his mind racing so fast he might as well not be thinking at all.

Roger clears his throat and says the first thought he can grab out of his brain. “Are you talking to me or him?”

Brian meets his eye in the mirror. “Who do you think, Roger?”

Roger doesn’t dare look at Freddie. He pretends to go back to his makeup, but his hands are too shaky to bring the pencil anywhere near his eyeballs.

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” he mumbles.

“Oh come off it.” Brian scoffs. “I saw you two last night.”

“Brian.” Freddie’s voice is drowned out by the wave of panic that crashes over Roger’s head and soaks him to the bone.

“What did you see?” Roger asks, unsuccessfully keeping the tremble out of his voice.

Brian doesn’t say anything and Roger finally makes himself meet his eye again. He can’t figure out the expression on Brian’s face and that scares him more than anything.

“What did you see, Brian?” Roger asks again, his voice hardening as if it’ll protect him.

“Roger,” Freddie warns, his voice far too level for the turmoil threatening to explode out of Roger’s chest all over the mirror.

“I saw enough.”

“Enough, huh?” Roger wheels around, instinctively going on the defensive. “What is it? You got a problem with me shagging blokes or something?”

“This isn’t about you shagging blokes, Roger. This is about your cock fucking up the band once we’re finally getting somewhere.”

Roger opens his mouth to say something. He snaps it shut. He narrows his eyes at Brian.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he finally says, his voice shaking to the rhythm of his erratic heartbeat.

“Christ, have you really not thought this through?” Brian crosses his arms and leans against the wall. “We all know how young Deaky is, and, well… let’s face it, he’s not going to take it well once you’ve decided you’ve had your fun.”

“Boys, this isn’t-”

“Had my fun?” Roger spits out, drawing himself up to his full height even though he knows it’s useless. “Is that really what you think this is?”

“You can’t blame me for thinking that, Roger,” Brian says calmly. “How many dalliances of yours have ended because you got bored?”

“ _Dalliance?_ ” Roger is reeling. “Do you even hear yourself? This isn’t some girl from uni, this is John.”

“Exactly. It’s John. Our goddamn bandmate, Roger.” Brian punctuates each sentence with a step until Roger has to crane his neck up to meet his eye. “Fuck, how could you be so stupid?”

“Boys!”

“Jesus, where the fuck is all this coming from?”

“Listen, Roger.” Brian takes a deep breath. “You’re like my brother, yeah? I’ve known you long enough to know you have a lot of incredible qualities. But faithfulness isn’t one of them.”

Something snaps in the air around them like a guitar string in the middle of a solo and in the blink of his eye, Roger’s focus lasers in to one, red-hot pinpoint of being. He turns around and grabs Freddie’s hairspray, chucking the cap onto the counter and depressing the nozzle before anyone else has a chance to react.

“You’re one to talk about fucking faithfulness,” Roger snarls as he aims to give Brian a mouthful of aerosol.

Roger doesn’t remember much after that. He knows there’s yelling and Brian grabbing for his wrist and Freddie coming between the two of them. He thinks he might have gotten hairspray onto Freddie’s fringe at some point, but he can’t be sure. He’s close to grabbing Brian’s shirt collar, sandwiching Freddie in the middle, when a familiar voice breaks all of them out of the whirlwind.

“What the hell is going on in here?”

Roger snaps his head to the door to find John clutching the doorframe, staring at them all in bewilderment. He feels someone tug on the hairspray can. He can’t tell if it’s Brian or Freddie, but he lets go anyway. 

Whether John wants an answer to his question is unclear, but Roger is in no state to give it. But then Brian takes a breath as if he’s about to speak.

“I’ll tell you later,” Roger says, looking pointedly at Brian. He grabs his shirt off the back of his chair and shrugs it on. “Let’s go.”

Roger brushes past John as he storms out the door and into the dim hallway. He doesn’t let himself look back or slow down because as soon as he stops, the adrenaline will crash and he will break down. His momentum propels him towards the holding deck, unable to slow down even as he hears John’s platforms rapidly clacking on the concrete floor.

Before John can catch up to Roger, he feels a hand on his shoulder and turns around just in time for Freddie to link their arms together. Freddie gives him a reassuring smile that does absolutely nothing but confuse John even more. They walk down the hall in uncomfortable silence, Freddie forcing them to slow down as if they are walking into a lion’s den.

That said, John has seen enough of Roger’s tantrums to know that whatever the hell happened will probably blow over by the time they’re done the first song. It’s only for that reason he doesn’t say anything when Freddie hangs on to him protectively while Roger paces up and down the deck from the door to the stage, refusing to look at anyone.

But then Brian joins them at the last second before they need to go on and Roger looks at him with murder in his eyes.

And then the first song is over and Roger is still aggressively banging on the drums.

Actually, aggressive isn’t the right word for it. It’s more like he’s trying to beat his drum kit to death. John half-wonders if the drum skin will survive their 30 minute set.

He doesn’t have time to worry about the dread settling into his bones because he’s too busy trying to keep up with whatever the hell rhythmic war Roger and Brian are fighting. John tries to catch Roger’s eye, Brian’s eye, anyone’s eye, but it's no use. 

Freddie, being the showman that he is, makes sure the audience doesn’t notice the fact that they’re fumbling like amateurs. He humps the microphone stand, crawls across the stage, and gets close enough to John that they’re practically sharing breaths during their duet. John might have laughed at the lewd display if he wasn’t so disconcerted.

The final note hardly clears the air before Roger is rushing off the stage and into the wings. John doesn’t even bother with a hasty bow. He unplugs his bass and after a frustrating search for a roadie that takes just a few seconds too long, hands it off and chases after Roger, the cacophony of the stage fading out as he jogs down the endless hallway. 

By the time he makes it to the dressing room, Roger is carelessly stuffing his and John’s things into his gig bag; sniffling, but there are no tears in his eyes.

“Roger, what the fuck?” John pants, out of breath.

“We’re leaving.”

“We’re- what?”

“I’ll tell you at the hotel, just-”

“No, you’ll tell me now.”

“John-”

“No, Roger.” John shuts the door and stands in front of it. “That was probably the worst set we’ve ever done and apparently I’m the only one in the dark as to what the fuck happened out there.”

Roger stops what he’s doing and looks up at John. Apparently he was wrong when he thought there were no tears in Roger’s eyes.

“Please, just tell me,” John whispers.

Roger looks at John for a long moment. He blinks rapidly until the glitter disappears from the corners of his eyes. He grabs onto the back of his dressing chair and drops his head between his shoulders.

“They know.”

All of the blood rushes out of John’s head and his knees buckle. Two simple words - innocuous and frankly, quite boring - and yet coming from Roger’s mouth, they may as well be the nuclear detonator that implodes John’s world. He grabs onto the handle and presses his back against the door before he can collapse completely.

“What?” John hears a laugh and it takes a second for him to realize it’s his own.

“I said they know, John,” Roger grits out before he looks up at the ceiling and huffs a hopeless laugh. “It’s my fault, I-”

“You told them?” John’s breaths are coming out in short gasps.

“No! No, I- fuck.”

In an instant, Roger is across the room and John feels Roger’s forehead pressed to his and his hands cradling his face. John's knuckles are white where they grip the door handle and he breathes along to the rhythm Roger counts out for him, trying not to let the wave of panic overtake him.

“What happened?” John whispers once his heart rate is back under control.

Roger threads his fingers through John’s hair as if he’s trying to keep him from flying away.

Only the whir of the air condition unit fills the room until Roger finally says, “Brian saw us last night.”

John is glad Roger is right there because otherwise he would be on the floor.

“But listen- listen, the fight wasn’t about… about, you know… the fact that we’re both blokes,” Roger stumbles over his explanation, but John hardly listens. “He thought- he thinks- he assumed that it’s just casual or something and it’s going to blow up on us, that’s all.”

“That’s all,” John repeats sarcastically.

“Deaky, please. I’m pissed, too. _Trust me_ , he-” Roger takes a deep breath. “Just, trust me.”

John should probably feel angry. Honestly, he should be livid. But he doesn’t feel anything. A numbness spreads over his body and he finds he quite likes it. It’s far preferable to the bouts of nerves he usually has to deal with. He is so far away that he doesn’t even realize what his silence could be misconstrued as until Roger breaks through his haze.

“Please don’t break up with me.”

John snaps back to Roger, his eyes wide.

“Roger, I’m not-” John finally moves his hands, bringing them to rest at Roger’s elbows. “I’m not.”

***

The hot water runs down John’s back, plastering his hair to his skin. His forehead is pressed against the damp shower tiles. He watches the water run down the wall onto the shower floor as a single sentence replays in his mind.

_Is it really so bad if they know?_

Roger had asked the question around his cigarette as they waited for a cab outside of the arena after sneaking off in the middle of Hoople’s set. He said it like a bargain, a plea to whoever was listening to make it come true. John didn’t answer him. 

Maybe it's not so bad. Maybe they can clear the air and Freddie and Brian will be more than accepting and they can finally loosen up. They’re all great friends after all. But John knows from experience that friendship means nothing in the face of “discomfort” - as polite society likes to put it.

At least when they were a secret John could pretend. He could pretend that the others wouldn’t care, that one day he could kiss Roger or lay his legs across his lap without the others so much as batting an eye. He could pretend there would come a time when could tuck himself beneath Roger’s arm while the four of them played scrabble on a cozy night in.

But that’s pretend.

In reality, it’s more likely that from now on, every small and friendly gesture shared between the two of them will be met with scrutiny and averted eyes, crossed arms and throat-clearing that spell _discomfort_. In reality, Freddie will probably gently ask him if he really understands what he’s doing; Brian will probably tell them he doesn’t care what they get up to as long as they “keep it behind closed doors.”

At least for tonight, John doesn’t want to face reality.

He hops out of the shower and throws the scratchy terry cloth robe over his damp shoulders, scrunching a towel in his hair as he exits the bathroom. The room is dark except for the flickering blue light of the television. Roger is curled up on one of the double beds, staring blankly at the news show he put on. 

He doesn’t notice John at first, and John takes a second to observe him. He recognizes the look in Roger’s far-off stare. Defeat. Whatever anger Roger was riding on is gone. Roger had refused to tell John exactly what Brian said, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that it was nothing good.

“Get changed,” John says. Roger jumps and looks at him with wide eyes. “We’re getting drunk.”

Roger looks at him as if he has two heads. “What?”

“There’s a bar near here I think you’ll like,” John says, dropping the towel and crawling on the bed next to Roger. “We could either stay here and mope, or we can live a little on our last night in New Orleans. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather get drunk enough to forget this shitshow.”

“I thought… Are you not mad at me?” Roger sounds so small that even if John was angry, he’d probably forgive him on the spot.

“I don’t think I am,” John answers truthfully.

“But-”

“You’re right,” John interrupts, forcing a smile onto his lips. He plays with the hem of Roger’s jeans so he doesn’t need to look him in the eye when he says, “Maybe it’s not so bad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would John ever wear one of Roger's crop tops? Probs not but in this universe he does lmao. Anyway, its been a hot minute but I'm back updating this fic! I hope you liked this chapter!


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